Wizard Spawn Read online

  "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.

  "Gods!" Duran shut the door, and stood leaning his forehead on it. No wonder Brovor had all but recognized him. Though it had been years since he had been at court, and the light in his shop had not been the best—Brovor had seen him many times as a child . . . a square-faced, obstinate boy, a bad temper—

  A grown man with a dynastic marriage to make, a secret to protect . . .

  Hladyr protect! What did he do now? The two men had taken great pains to hide their identities; but the companion had let slip one clue by mentioning the Khaldori family, a second by reference to Saladar . . . and Brovor was no fool: some small, nagging sense of recognition might set him to asking discreet questions, closer questions that might turn up a name—an association—that might make him believe his secret in danger—

  Himself vulnerable to blackmail . . .

  O gods! Why did I answer my door? They could have found other doctors to treat the pox, other physicians who would keep secrets. Why me?

  They had paid in gold. For the silence as well as treatment. An ordinary apothecary would be overawed, have no notion what the scandal was worth, politically—but a disenfranchised nobleman, an alchemist with guild connections, a son of a disgraced father—with possible motives for political revenge, or alliance . . .

  Not mentioning the chance of the heir dying if he miscalculated in his dosage—forget all hope of claiming it was the disease . . .

  He would have to be careful, very careful, both in his treatment and in keeping his identity secret—and the chances of doing that seemed frighteningly slim. . . .

  The one who discovered the cure, the companion had said.

  Gods, hope the companion never mentioned names, hope the companion never understood his previous court connections, never connected Duran the Apothecary with Duran the Alchemist, Duran vro Ancahar . . .

  Nothing to be
done. Absolutely nothing to be done. One walked a narrow line and hoped—and did not look for much sleep this night.

  * * *

  A day of better trade, a quiet day, thank the gods. But it drizzled. There was a brisk trade in febrifuges, in willow tea. One could forget about ducal heirs, keep one's eyes on Old Town, put palaces and princes put of one's mind and worry about the Wirrin baby, who took colic; and Eemi, from harborside, with a knife-cut from one of her customers: Eemi feared scarring . . . Duran wanted a test for the herbs and lard. . . .

  It seemed dishonest to charge, the girl being out of work and all. . . .

  Dog barked downstairs, and barked again. Duran sat bolt upright in his chair where he had all but fallen asleep, his notes on his lap, another experiment bubbling away in its pot. This was Dog's most unfriendly bark, a bark more vicious than that reserved for mere visitors.

  Another chorus of barks.

  Duran walked across the room to a side window. The clouds had fled and a full moon rode above Targheiden now, and by its light Duran could see movement in the alleyway below. He stared through the darkness, trying to make out what was going on.

  And then he saw and stepped back from the window. Someone was being beaten in the alley. Though he had heard no cries for help, the scuffling, the heavy breathing, and the muffled sounds of blows were easy enough to hear in the intervals of Dog's barking.

  "Damn!"

  Without thinking, Duran grabbed for his lamp and took to the stairs at a run, down the steps, across his shop as he fumbled for his keys. He snatched up his heavy walking stick, the only weapon the law allowed commoners. Hefting the staff in one hand, he unlocked the door and jerked it open wide as Dog joined him, his back bristled, a low growl rumbling up from his chest as he loped out into a street deserted at this late hour, light from the "Cat's" torches shining on damp cobblestones. Duran followed Dog, staff in hand, around the corner of his house and into the blind alleyway.

  The combination of moonlight and distant torchlight showed him who his opponents were: mere boys, three of them, probably no more than fourteen years old—and running up behind the young toughs, he was upon them before they heard him coming. He lashed out with his staff—once, twice—hitting two of the boys, then jabbing up at the stomach of the third.

  "Damn you!" He spun around to take a blow on his staff from the first tough he had hit and to deliver the butt-end to an unguarded kneecap. "Don't like the odds now, do you?"

  One of the boys sprinted off into the darkness: Duran heard a snarl and a yelp of pain—Dog had entered the fight, one remaining thug attempting to tear from Dog's hold, the other, lamed, sidling around Duran, his back to the wall of the building on the opposite side of the alley.

  "Hey, Grandpa!" the other taunted, and Duran saw the dim glint of light on metal in that hand. "See if you can get this!"

  The young tough stabbed out with his knife, but Duran had expected the move and, jumping back, brought the end of his staff around in a blow that sent his opponent staggering back against the wall. A second swipe of the staff knocked the boy's knife from his hand—at which, with Dog chasing after the second thug, the boy Duran faced spun and lurched off into the dark, decidedly the worse for wear.

  Panting, Duran leaned on his long staff, his ears ringing. Damn. He had not lost his touch.

  Dog gave up the chase and trotted tamely back. Quiet descended on the block. Somewhere shutters banged close again—none in this lane but his own, that cast a wan light to reflect on the walls. The victim of the toughs' attack sat leaning up against the wall of Duran's house, arms wrapped around his chest.

  "Boy?" Duran said, walking closer. No response. "Are you all right?"

  The boy looked up, nodded briefly, once.

  Sabirn, the hair, the features were distinctive even in the dim light. A Sabirn out walking this district. That explained the attack.

  "Can you stand?" Duran asked. The boy nodded, gathered his feet, and made an attempt. After a brief moment, he subsided. "Here." Duran held out a hand, grasped the youth under one arm, and helped him to his feet. "Got you pretty bad, didn't they?"

  The Sabirn youth nodded again and stood swaying on his feet. Dog had come back from investigating the battle-site, and snuffled at the boy's shoes.

  Duran looked across at the "Cat," at the end of the alleyway, but the tavern lay silent: many of its customers had gone home by now, and the travelers who were staying the night would have likely gone to bed: too late to rouse Tutadar, no sign of Old Man, who might be of some use.

  "Lean on me," Duran said, taking some of the boy's weight on his left side. He took the lad toward the street, toward his front door—gods, he had left it open. But Dog trotted ahead and stood waiting on the doorstep, tail slowly wagging back and forth, evidence of property unmolested.

  The Sabirn boy balked at the threshold, wobbled. Duran insisted, Duran helped the youth across the doorstep, Dog complicating matters by trying to enter the shop at the same time.

  "Go on, Dog. Good boy. Lie down now." Duran nodded, let the boy lean against the counter, picked up his lamp. "Then let's take it slow." He reached out to put the other arm around the boy: the youth flinched. "Easy. Mehciya."

  The boy looked at him, set-jawed, scared-looking in the lamplight.

  "That's the limit of my Sabir. But I'm a friend. Try to help me if you can."

  Slowly, taking as much of the boy's weight as he would give, Duran walked him to the rear of the shop. The steps leading upstairs were steep and narrow; he took them one at a time, pausing now and again to let the youth gather strength for the next. Finally, Duran gained the second story, and led the boy into his room, to his bed.

  Another hesitation. "Easy now, take it easy." He insisted, brought the boy to the bedside, let him slide from his arm to sit on the bed. Duran set his lamp down on the table close by, looked down at the Sabirn youth. "Well, now. Let's take a look at you. . . ."

  The boy flinched as Duran brushed his long black hair back from his forehead. His gaze flicked back and forth across the room, toward the window—

  "Dammit, lad, I won't hurt you. Don't fight me now. Mehciya, understand? I'm trying to help."

  The boy murmured something inaudible, but sat silent as Duran inspected the cut. That was not as bad as it looked, just bloody. Duran knelt and looked at the youth's ankle: sprained and swelling—if it was not broken. The ribs—the gods knew. The boy had no inclination to let him see.

  "All right." He stood and walked across the room to a small cabinet. "I'm going to get you something that should make you feel better." He glanced over his shoulder. "For Hladyr's sake, boy . . . I'm not your enemy. Relax."

  Duran always kept a few essential herbs and poultices upstairs in case he found the need for them. He came back with a splinter of kindling, lit it from the lamp, moved his current project off the stove and set on a clean pot, from the stores on the shelf, wormwood mixed in wine. He waited patiently while the mixture heated, then dipped a clean rag into the steaming solution.

  "This may sting some at first," he said, "but it will take away the pain." He met the youth's eyes. "Amegi?"

  The boy nodded, and Duran set to work on the lad's cut forehead. The boy's hands clenched on the edge of the bed.

  "I'm almost done . . . There. Now. You want to let me see the ribs? Mmmn?"

  The youth frowned, hesitated—then untied his belt, and set aside a small wooden flute he had kept bound at his waist. Gingerly lifting his tunic, he revealed bruises that had already darkened his thin torso.

  "Huhn. Wrap in the sheet. I'll mix something stronger." He went back to his shelves and took out another jar, filled this time with white vinegar and a stronger tincture of wormwood. This, too, he heated a little, poured half into a pan he set to heat, then returned to the boy. "I'll be gentle as I can."

  The youth shut his eyes and nodded. Duran generously swabbed the bruised areas of the boy's chest, side and back, then with strips of rag tied the soaked cloth against the lad
's bruises.

  "That should do it for now," he said as the youth lowered his tunic. "The ankle's what worries me." The water on the stove had begun to steam: Duran brought the pan back, encouraged the lad to slip off his ragged shoe and put his foot into the water.

  The boy winced at the heat. Slowly, keeping his eyes closed and his jaw clamped tight, he lowered his foot into the water.

  "Ahh!"

  "I know," Duran said. "Hurts like Dandro's hells, doesn't it? Patience, lad. The pain will start to go away."

  Dark eyes followed Duran as he went back to the stove. "Why're you doing this?" the boy asked.

  Duran shrugged. "Why not?"

  "I'm Sabirn."

  "Aye, that you are." Duran came back to the bedside.

  "You're Ancar."

  "That I am. I'm also an apothecary. Sometimes a doctor."

  "Nobody else'd help me." The boy's eyes were steady. "Why're you different?"

  Duran cocked his head. "I'm me," he said. "And I don't like to see folks hurt. How'd you end up in that alley anyway?"

  The boy frowned. He remained silent.

  "Don't answer if you don't want to. Have you ever seen those three toughs before?"

  "No."

  "Chase you far?"

  The boy nodded. "Chochi. My fault." He wiggled his toes in the water. "Damn stupid to get caught like that."

  Duran fetched the chair from against the wall, and set it by the bedside. He lowered himself down and crossed his legs. "Have you got any family? Anyone who will worry where you are?"

  The boy stared at Duran in sudden, stark suspicion.

  "All right. You've scores and scores of relatives. All of them formidable. What's your name?"

  After a long pause, the boy replied, "Kekoja."

  Duran waited, but that was all. Kekoja. "I'm Duran," he said. "Is that ankle feeling any better?"

  The youth frowned, looked at him sidelong. "Doctor, huh?"

  "Of sorts. A herbalist and an apothecary. An alchemist, by profession—Mmmn, you don't trust me, do you?"

  The boy kept his gaze level. "Why're you doing this?" he asked for a second time.

  Why indeed? Duran asked himself the same question. He had always been kind to the Sabirn, but he had never had one of them in his house. He thought of the neighbors. . . .