Wizard Spawn Read online

  Duran picked up his mug and sought his table. Lalada the serving-girl came out from the kitchen, nodded dourly his way, too early for cheer, and began setting up the mugs behind the bar for the morning crowd. Thunder rumbled again, and Duran wondered if there would be much traffic in and out of the "Cat" as long as the rain kept up.

  Two men came down the stairs from their rooms and entered the common room; they paused for a moment, as if checking to see who was present, then took a table close to the bar. Travelers, Duran noted, most likely traders from Fresa by the cut of their tunics. They talked quietly to each other and gave brief orders to Lalada, who disappeared back into the kitchen.

  Tutadar came back into the common room carrying two plates, and set them down on Duran's table. He returned to the bar, poured three mugs of wine, and set two of them out before the travelers.

  "Your food'll be out shortly, Sori," he said with a small bow. "Get you anythin' else?"

  "Not unless you have good weather in your kitchen," one of the men said.

  "'Fraid not. You come far?"

  "From Fresa," the other man said. "Business with Porandi."

  "Luck to you then," Tutadar replied. He turned away and joined Duran at his table.

  Duran started cutting up his fish. Porandi was one of the more successful traders who had few ties to the noble houses. He wondered if any of Porandi's ships had suffered losses.

  "Damned weather's bad for everyone," Tutadar said around a mouthful of fish. "Gets me by havin' few travelers in and out. Gets you by havin' fewer folk show up at your shop.—Heard you had a visit from Vadami last night."

  "Aye." Duran lifted an eyebrow. "Was he here?"

  "No. Efdin saw 'im when he was at bakin' last night."

  "He would." Efdin again. The baker, like himself, kept night hours.

  "So what'd Vadami want of you?" Tutadar asked. Then his expression changed; he glanced over his shoulder and back, lowered his voice. "Wasn't anything t'do with Zeldezia tellin' 'im about the Sabirn kid?"

  Duran frowned. "He warned me." He finished his fish and lifted his mug. "I don't think I've ever done anything that's caused more of a stir than this, Tut. And all because I helped a boy in trouble."

  "Ithar told me he'd talked with you, an' you'd told 'im what really happened. Don't like Zeldezia much, myself. Always got her nose stuck somewhere it don't belong." Tut leaned back in his chair, turned his head at another rumble of thunder, then looked back. "She used to be soft on you, Duran, back when she first took over that shop. Thought you was really somethin'."

  Duran nearly choked on his wine. "She what? Me? You've got to be joking, Tut."

  "Ain't." Tutadar leaned forward and lowered his voice. "I knowed you near as long's Ithar knowed you. 'Member when she bought that shop, near seventeen years back? She found out you were pure Ancar, an' thought you'd make a fine catch, her bein' a widow an' everythin'. You never paid much attention to her, and I think that took 'er down a notch or two."

  "Gods," Duran murmured. "I'd sooner lie down with a spider!"

  Tut laughed, his eyes twinkling in the lamplight. "Thought so. Me, too. Woman's got a tongue that'd cut stone. You should'a seen the looks she used to give you.—Ha! Maybe that's why she been so nasty to you. What she cain't have, she don't want nobody else havin' neither."

  Duran shook his head and finished his drink. "Save us.—Could you get me another plate of fish and a mug of wine, Tut? The boy's probably starving by now."

  "Sure." Tut waited as Duran set out four coppers for his meal and Kekoja's and swept them up in a practiced hand. "That kid healed by now?"

  "Near back to normal as far as I can see."

  "Good. Now, when he leaves, maybe things'll quiet down 'round here."

  "Maybe." Duran watched Tut walk off toward the kitchen, and wondered.

  * * *

  The thunder still rolled. Ladirno sat in one of the chairs by the windows, and stared disconsolately at the downpour sheeting down the mullioned glass. Wellhyrn and he would have to wait at least another day to show the Duke their newest attempt at changing lesser metals into gold. Bad weather had always put the Duke in a foul mood; and now that Hajun had entered the shipping business, storms tended to worry him into depression.

  So. Another day, then. Ladirno suspected Wellhyrn was equally disappointed at the turn of weather and the postponement of their demonstration. If there was anything Wellhyrn loved, it was being the center of attention. He probably lay buried beneath his covers in bed, cursing the bad luck—or the wizardry—that had brought another storm to Targheiden.

  And since Wellhyrn would be foul company this morning, Ladirno either faced a lonely day in his rooms, or seeking company elsewhere—which meant going out in the downpour.

  "Damned rain," Ladirno muttered. He left the depressing view and dressed, choosing dark colors for his hose and tunic that would not show the dampness—or the mud. He took down his cloak from a peg on the wall, blew out his lamp on the way out, and felt his way down the darkened hall.

  Cheap landlord.

  Ladirno's apartments were on the second floor of a building that housed a well-to-do merchant and several court functionaries. He wished he might have been able to buy the apartment on the first floor, but that place had been occupied for generations by the Farchendi, and—short of the entire family dying at once—they would never give up their rooms. All in all, Ladirno lived at a more than respectable address, only a few blocks from the palace and the Temple—and the damn skinflint Farchendi would not afford a nightlamp in the hall. . . .

  The rain was falling in sheets when Ladirno opened the door onto the street. He considered where he might find company: two taverns sat within equal distance of his building, and his friends frequented both—both served good food. It was simply the direction of the wind that made up his mind; better to walk with the wind at one's back, and to hope the storm might lessen, than to face the driving rain.

  Ladirno pulled the hood of his cloak up and dashed outside, ran down the street, hugging the building, protected somewhat by the wide overhangs of the upper stories. Water swept down in torrents: the cobblestones were treacherously slick, the gutters spilling well onto the walks. But Ladirno reached the doorway that led into "The Golden Shoe" with no incident, and shoved his way inside.

  For a moment he stood at the entrance to the common room, dripping rainwater in puddles at his feet. His heart sank: not one acquaintance in the place: he should have guessed that the bad weather would have kept them indoors: the court functionaries would stay home later than normal given the Duke's mood in stormy weather—not for the first time, Ladirno wished he had a wife, a house of his own, and a gods-blessed cook to make his meals.

  But he was well known in the "Shoe" and its ambiance was homey and warm. Sooner or later some crony would show up. Ladirno pulled the hood back from his cloak, unclasped it, and held it out to one of the serving-lads who stood close by.

  "Breakfast, Sor Ladirno?" the fellow asked, holding the dripping garment at arm's length.

  "No. I'm looking for company, not food. I will have a glass of wine. . . ."

  Ladirno walked across the room: his shoes squished water between his toes as he walked.

  Taking a chair at a table directly beneath a lamp, Ladirno leaned back and simply took to watching till the wine came—then he took a small book no larger than his hand from his belt pouch, opened it, and began to read.

  All this, of course, was calculated to place him in the public eye. He had a reputation for being one of the ducal favorites, one of the alchemists who frequented court. Sitting as he did now beneath the lamp would show off his rich clothes, the gold chain he wore, and the fact he was always studying. Small matter that the book had nothing to do with alchemy . . . it looked impressive.

  "Ladirno."

  He glanced up: a prestigious senior colleague stood beside the table. "I didn't see you," Ladirno said, slipping his book back into his pouch. He hastily moved a chair. "Do sit down."
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  "I was in the back." Garvis gestured over his shoulder to the rear of the room. "I've already had my breakfast. I need to return to my laboratory."

  "A few minutes won't hurt."

  Garvis sat down. The waiter brought more wine; Ladirno paid twice the amount asked, letting the coins fall on the table with a flourish.

  "So, Garvis," he said, turning to his companion. "What have you heard regarding the Sabirn plot?"

  Garvis shrugged. "Not much more than you already know." He lowered his voice. "I'd say it's a genuine rumor though; the Duke's been set thoroughly on edge—"

  "Have they found any other Sabirn who knows about the plot?"

  "No. They've been staying out of sight. What with the bad weather, they know when it's best to stay hidden."

  Ladirno nodded sagely, recollecting his discussion with Wellhyrn the day before—decided if Garvis saw some seriousness in the matter—

  Mmmn. "You remember Duran, don't you?"

  "That one!" Garvis drew in a breath. "Like his father. Stubborn. What's he to do with it?"

  "Sabirn. He's searching for something. Sabirn alchemy."

  "Sabirn alchemy! No such thing! They were sorcerers! Black sorcerers!"

  Ladirno shrugged, not willing to seem—incorrect with this man.

  "What have you heard?" Garvis asked.

  "That he—has resentments against the court."

  "The stiff-necked fool chooses Old Town. His father's -banishment—was ameliorated and his father left him sufficient, I hear, but Duran thumbed his nose at respectability, set up this shop—to 'pursue his father's studies.' So-named studies. The fabled notes."

  "Do you honestly believe his father ever kept such notes?"

  "I've heard he did a lot of experimentation . . . of what sorts no one knows." Garvis leaned forward, jabbed the table with a gaunt finger. "A few of those experiments went wrong. That's why the Old Duke banished him."

  Ladirno's eyes widened. "Dark sorcery?"

  "I'll lay odds—mark me, those notes had Duran's 'discovery' of the cure for the pox. He's nothing!" Garvis exhaled a heavy, wine-laden breath. "Sabirn, is it?"

  "So the rumor goes. Digging in the hills. Going off with Sabirn hired help. For days."

  "Looking for herbs."

  "So they say."

  "Being a fool, he'd immediately give all the knowledge away."

  "A dangerous fool," Ladirno murmured.

  "Dangerous indeed," Garvis said, looking to the front of the tavern. "The rain's slacked. I've a meeting. See me about this."

  "Absolutely."

  Garvis pushed back his chair, stood, and left the common room. Ladirno sipped at his wine. He was beginning to sound like Wellhyrn, talking about shadowy plots and Duran's possible connection with them. But connections with Garvis, Garvis whose favor with the Duke was—very sure . . .

  Ladirno had never considered the Sabirn more than a nuisance; he discounted tales of their powers, their abilities to foretell the future and cast curses. Certainly they must have wizards: everyone had wizards, but—

  Still. There was the unseasonable, the most unreasonable weather—

  The rain slacked: other patrons began to filter in, rain-soaked. Ladirno took a long drink of his wine thinking of ducal favor . . . of funds that had nothing to do with Wellhyrn's inventions—of an apartment with well-tended lamps in the hallway—

  He looked up from his glass. The priest Vadami passed his table, his grey robes dark with rain.

  "Vadami," he said.

  This priest he knew from his connections. This priest dealt with Old Town—

  If anyone would know the gossip—

  "Join me, Father?"

  The priest looked mildly puzzled, drew out a chair, and sat down.

  "May I buy you a glass of wine then?" Ladirno offered. At Vadami's nod, he lifted his glass, caught the waiter's eye, and held up his other hand with one finger extended.

  "Thank you, Sor Ladirno." The priest kept silent until the waiter had brought the wine to the table, taken Ladirno's coins, and left. "You're very kind."

  "Its nothing."

  Vadami drank deeply, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and sighed. "Warms the insides, doesn't it? Excellent."

  "It is that." Ladirno leaned back in his chair and studied Vadami. "Your district is Old Town, isn't it? You know 'The Swimming Cat'?"

  "Aye."

  "Do you know a man named Duran?"

  Vadami's cup hesitated on the way to his mouth. "Aye."

  Ladirno swirled the wine around in his glass. "One wonders—we've fallen—out of touch. I worry about him, being poor as he is. I'd like to help him."

  "You may worry about his being poor, Sor Ladirno, but I worry more about his soul."

  "In what regard?"

  The priest frowned, a very troubled look passing over his face.

  "Ah." Ladirno's heart lurched, but he kept his face only concerned. "Is he—in some difficulty?"

  "His associations. With the Sabirn."

  "He's always been friendly to the Sabirn. We twit him about it—his friends do."

  "Are his friends aware—he has one living in his house."

  Ladirno's eyes narrowed. "Really? How odd. A man or a woman?"

  "A boy." Vadami's face colored. "I've warned him. I told him I was afraid for his soul. He quoted me scripture."

  "Scripture?" Gods above and below! If Duran had a Sabirn living with him—

  Was Wellhyrn onto something? Could this boy be involved with the plot? What if Duran—was dealing with—some ancient knowledge?

  "Overmuch learning," the priest was saying, his voice pitched to quiet complaining, "can lead a man to pride, master alchemist."

  Ladirno smoothed down his moustaches, hardly hearing a word the priest said on dogma. Damn! Interesting in the extreme—

  * * *

  The storm had decreased from a downpour to a steady rain. Gusts of wind still blew in off the harbor, several tiles from a roof near the "Cat" lay scattered and broken on the cobblestones.

  "Hladyr bless," Duran murmured, glancing up at the dark sky. He tucked the basket containing Kekoja's breakfast under one arm and quickly crossed the street, hopping across its flooded edges. He made his front door, took out his keys, and let himself into the shop.

  Dog got up, stood in the doorway, and inspected the lessened storm with canine disdain. Duran set the basket down on his counter. "Make up your mind, fellow," Duran said. "Inside or out. I want to go upstairs."

  Dog wagged his tail, evidently decided another foray into the puddles was not worth it, and curled up in front of the counter.

  Duran closed and locked the front door, and took breakfast upstairs.

  Kekoja was sitting on the edge of the bed. He had lit the lamp, opened the shutters, and sat with a book open on the table.

  "Breakfast," Duran said, leaving the stairs and crossing the room to Kekoja's side. "You're probably starving by now, aren't you?"

  "No." Kekoja set the book aside and dug into the fish and bread. "You see my grandfather?"

  "He says he'll come over and watch you walk soon as the rain stops."

  "Way it's still raining, that'll be five days from now." He sipped the watered wine. "Thought the windows'd blow in."

  "I know. If it happens again when I'm gone, close the shutters on the outside. Reach out and pull them." Duran walked over to his desk, sat down, and opened his belt pouch. He took from under the desk lid a small purse where he kept the shop money and spread the coins out on his desk. Twenty-one coppers. He opened a battered notebook, unstopped his inkwell, dipped his pen.

  "Doin' your accounts?" Kekoja asked from across the room.

  "Aye. And I didn't do too bad yesterday. Made a profit."

  Kekoja took a drink of wine. "You as kind to all your customers as you been to me?"

  Duran smiled. "I try to be. My job's different than most people's. I see folk at their worst . . . when they're sick. It never hurts to be kind to people who d
on't feel well."

  "Grandfather says you're the only thing close to a doctor this part of Old Town ever sees. You could get more'n coppers."

  "Maybe so." Duran wrote down the total of yesterday's take, returned the coins in their purse to his belt pouch, and capped the ink. "But Hladyr knows how much each item I sell costs me. I have to live with myself, lad, and overcharging people makes me angry. I take just enough to make a profit some days."

  "Today'll hurt you, won't it?"

  "Aye."

  Kekoja stood up and walked to Duran's side, winecup in hand. "I could help you," he said, "if you'd trust me with your numbers. I've got a good head for doing sums."

  Duran leaned back in his chair and looked up at the Sabirn boy's face. "Who taught you numbers, Kekoja? Old Man?"

  "Aye."

  "Five plus six, plus twelve, minus eight, plus two equals what?"

  "Seventeen."

  Duran lifted an eyebrow. "You are fast.—But you know what I could use more than someone helping me with my books? A runner."

  "A runner?" Kekoja cocked his head. "For what?"

  "I'm tied down to my shop all the time it's opened. If I had someone to take medicines to people too sick to come see me, or someone who would brave weather like today to go around to people's houses and take orders—this summer, that could mean something."

  He watched the Sabirn boy think that through.

  "Mother Garan, for example," Duran said. "She's old and she has a lot of headaches. I give her willow tea for them and that makes her feel better. But she can't get in if it's raining like it's been today. Do you see?"

  "Aye," Kekoja answered, nodding his head. His eyes met Duran's. "But you couldn't pay much, could you?"

  "No." Duran smiled. "That's why I'll probably never have a runner. No one would work that cheap."

  "What'd people say if you had a Sabirn runner?'

  Duran looked at him steadily. "People might get used to it. People might get used to the idea you're here. People might use their heads, instead of their mouths—maybe decide this isn't some great secret. It's secrets people are really afraid of—"