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“It does. But I can’t feel any give when I push on it as hard as I can.”
“No. I can’t either. All right, move down a little ways.”
Villette shifted in her chair again, straightening up and tucking her feet beneath her. She had never turned her head and lifted her eyes to meet Brandon’s. “He might. I don’t know. Or maybe the cherloshe I swallowed is still having an effect. I suppose I’ll find out.”
Finley was on her tiptoes, stretching as high as she could go, which apparently wasn’t high enough. She turned and motioned to Brandon. “Hey, give me a boost, will you? Nadder thinks he sees a crack near the top.”
He had no choice but to join the other guards in making sure Villette’s prison was secure. They spent another thirty minutes poking and prodding at the stones and mortar, but nothing appeared to be seriously out of place. By the time they finished their inspection, Villette had gone inside.
And she didn’t come back down for the rest of the day.
Later that week, Brandon had his rare day off. He normally slept from about ten in the morning until five or six at night, but he wanted to make productive use of daylight hours, so he forced himself awake shortly after noon. Yawning, he gulped down a hasty meal, then headed out into a gloomy, overcast day. Finley had said this was a signal that summer was more than half over and autumn would quickly descend. The seasons weren’t as pronounced on the islands, where the ocean kept temperatures relatively even most of the year, but Brandon had already spent two winters in the city. He shivered at the memory.
He caught a chugger headed east and settled in for a long, tedious ride. The only excitement came when they were almost at the Quatrefoil. The other passengers began murmuring and pointing, some of them sticking their heads out of the window to get a better view. Brandon craned his neck to see what was causing all the commotion, and then he caught his breath in an admiring gasp. One of the city couriers was skimming along the overhead wire, graceful as a dancer, racing toward some unknown destination. Brandon watched until the slim swift figure was out of sight.
After that, there was no way to pass the time except by watching the architecture subtly change as the transport moved between neighborhoods. Once they left behind the soaring roofs and steeples of the Quatrefoil, the buildings became shabbier, dirtier, more workaday. Brandon started paying more attention to the interior surroundings as a rougher clientele began climbing aboard. He wasn’t wearing his temple livery, but anyone looking for clues would spot the soldier’s bracelet on his left wrist and mark him down as a poor candidate for robbing. Even so, best to be careful. He was carrying a fair bit of money and he’d just as soon keep it.
Eventually, the slow transport reached Brandon’s destination—the Zessin district on the southeastern edge of town—and he disembarked. The heavy gray clouds cast early shadows across the streets and storefronts, but even so, Brandon felt his heart lift as he glanced around. All the people he saw were strangers, of course, but they looked familiar, their faces brown or freckled, their wavy hair every shade of red. Even the way they walked, with an easy loose-limbed gait, seemed different from the purposeful stride of the impatient city dweller.
He had come here with a specific intent, but he first detoured through a small open-air food market that dominated the south edge of the main street. It was a transient affair of rickety booths and upended carts—they probably came together every morning and were dismantled every night, but, oh, what delights they offered! Brandon browsed through the makeshift stalls, paying for and gulping down small portions of salted fish, herbed bread, and fermented milk. There was even a vendor selling seagrass wine, and Brandon purchased a canvas rucksack just so he could carry two bottles home with him.
“You want to be careful with that,” admonished the vendor, a stooped old man whose unruly white hair still showed streaks of ginger. He wrapped both bottles in dirty squares of canvas to keep them from breaking against each other in the bag. “If you’re not used to it, it’ll knock you flat in three swallows.”
Brandon laughed. “You don’t have to tellme. My dad used to make it in a shed out back.”
“Oh, well, then, you know.”
Next, he stopped at a booth where a middle-aged woman was selling packets of dried spices. He wasn’t sure Villette’s cook would know what to make of any of them, but he purchased the four that had always been in his mother’s kitchen, then stood there a moment merely inhaling their scent.
Maybe this is what homesickness feels like,he thought. At any rate, he didn’t have another word for the emotion.
He finally forced himself away from the market and continued down the short street that constituted the heart of the Zessin district. Another block took him to a small shop that sold fabric, clothing, and accessories. He headed straight to the table in the back where the jewelry was sold.
A rather formidable-looking woman about his mother’s age materialized beside him before he’d had time to do more than bend over and glance at the necklaces on display. She was dressed like an island woman, in soft, loose fabrics that appeared weathered from an incessant assault of sea air. She had a solid body, big hands, and a suspicious expression on her face.
“Is there something I can help you with?” she asked in a tone that indicated she highly doubted it.
It took him that long to realize he was the only man in the shop and that most of the items for sale were intended for women. But he refused to be intimidated by a seawife. He straightened up and said, “I’m looking for a gift for my mother. A chazissa.”
The seller’s countenance warmed slightly. “Well, that’s all right, then. Which of the goddess’s incarnations were you interested in?”
“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “She’s been going through a rough time lately, so maybe the pose of protection, but—I haven’t decided.”
Reaching under the table, the seller drew out a large, flat wooden box and cleared space for it on the counter. Inside were at least twenty chazissas lined up on a black cloth surface. The white stone amulets were crisp and pristine against the dark fabric, the leather cords almost invisible.
The woman lifted a chazissa in each hand. “The pose of protection. The pose of nurturing.” When his face showed uncertainty, she returned them to the case and held up two more. “The pose of courage. The pose of generosity.”
“I’m thinking—I don’t know—I might need to get her a couple different ones. She might need a lot of help right now.”
The seller studied him for a moment, the amulets dangling from her hands, and then she nodded. “Well, it’s very expensive, but some of my customers indulge themselves with a cycle chazissa,” she said.
“I don’t know what that is.”
She rummaged under the table again and came up with another box, smaller than the first and set with a lock. Fishing a key from her pocket, she opened the lid, and drew out one of the treasures inside. “A cycle chazissa,” she repeated. “Featuring all the goddess’s poses.”
This leather cord was a longer than the others and hung with twelve distinct amulets, each one carefully spaced from the others and knotted in place. These charms were smaller than the typical ones, a little more delicate, but so beautifully rendered that Brandon could make out the goddess’s features, varying from fierce to tender. He reached out as if to stroke a carved cheek, a tiny hand, but didn’t bring his finger close enough to touch.
Such a chazissa could bring Villette months andmonthsof protection. And she would find the small, slim figurines so much easier to swallow. He didn’t care how much it cost. He would pawn his soul for such a prize.
