The potter eyed him. “It does, sometimes.”
“Well, I could scrape it off for you. You should do that, once in a while.”
Speaking to Attise, the man said, “Your lad’s getting bored. Why don’t you send him off wandering for a bit?”
Attise was watching Willam with that sharp, too-intelligent gaze. “No,” she said. “He tends to get into trouble if he’s left to his own devices.”
Will tried to look sheepish. “Really, I don’t mind doing it for you. It’ll keep me busy.”
They exchanged glances, and the potter shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He turned back to Attise. “No, I would have remembered you.” Willam could hear the smile in the man’s voice.
Will found a potsherd and another stool and, moving the items from a high shelf, began scraping the stones, using a broken jug to catch the powder. The conversation behind him wandered haphazardly. Willam soon finished his first section, replaced the pots, and began on the next.
“Did you find it to be true?” the potter asked Attise at one point. “Aren’t the people friendlier in the south?”
Attise made an affirmative sound. “I think it’s the desert that does it to us. Life is so fragile in the north, you have to work so hard, live so carefully. It makes us cautious.”
“Well, I never regretted settling down here. There I was, stumping my way north off the Upland Route with my mind full of misery, and these people took me in. They didn’t know a thing about me, but they made me feel like pure gold. You won’t find a finer town than Kiruwan.”
“Have other strangers settled here and found the same thing?”
There was a pause. “Well.” Willam heard him shift. “No other strangers have moved in. No, everyone else is native.”
Willam abandoned his stool for the third shelf.
“Perhaps you can advise me. Is there anything in this town that I might find worth buying?”
The potter took his time in answering. “There’s Lena, the weaver. She does some interesting things. And you might try the jeweler.”
“A small town like this can support a jeweler?”
“Well.” There was a rustle and thump as he stretched his legs. “He makes most of his money as a silversmith. But we do have enough people coming through in winter to make his other work pay. I suppose you might find something you can use.” He did not sound very enthusiastic; possibly he had a grudge against the man.
Will heard Attise jump to the floor. “Then I’ll look in on those two. Thank you for your help, and the conversation.”
“I enjoyed it.” He sounded a little regretful.
“Willam.” Will turned to see Attise beckon. “Let’s go.”
“But I’m not finished.”
“He’s a hard worker,” the potter observed. He was looking at Will a little differently; Will could not identify the change.
“Can’t I stay for a while?”
“I don’t mind,” the man began, but Attise interrupted.
“No.” She was studying Willam, and it suddenly occurred to him that nothing he had been doing had missed her notice. “I think I need him with me.”
Outside, Will detoured to carry the broken jug out back to the trash. Once out of sight, he dug out his grubby handkerchief, poured the powder into it, knotted the ends, and discarded the jug.
They found Lena, the weaver, plying her shuttle in a little room completely filled by the bulk of her loom. She listened to Attise’s requests grudgingly, then conducted them into a second room, where bolts of cloth were stacked haphazardly. Attise duly inspected the work, but Will could tell she was not really interested; and try as she might, she could not draw Lena into casual conversation.
It came to Will that visiting the weaver’s was mere distraction. Attise was marking her time, waiting for something to happen. There were too many things Willam did not know, too many events outside of his control. And the caution he had learned so dearly from his spells began to prick at him. If there was danger somewhere in this town, he—and perhaps even Attise herself—was walking into it blindly.
16
“Are you learning anything?”
Attise looked up at him. “Nothing to speak of.” They strolled down the street together in silence for a while.
Will slipped to Attise’s opposite side, to avoid the muddy gutter. “Well, what are you looking for?” But he expected no real answer.
She stopped before a tall-windowed shop. “Perhaps this.” Stepping across the gutter, she entered, pausing at the door to motion Willam to follow.
Inside, tall shutters had been pushed wide open, and the broad room was surprisingly bright. The walls were covered with shelves displaying plates and cups of silver and pewter. Toward the back, the room opened further into a workshop with benches and a small unlit stove.
Standing near the windows were a number of dark wood cases, lined with velvet of different colors to offset the varied contents to best advantage. A hasp on the front of each case suggested that they could be locked, although lids and locks were not in evidence. The velvet was dusty in some cases, worn in others, new in a few.
Attise scanned the shop, then strolled idly to the first case and examined the contents. A collection of red and pale-green stones set in silver was displayed on yellow velvet. Will reluctantly found himself fancying an openwork ring of subdued elegance.
“Well, here we are, then, here we are!” A little man bustled in from the rear of the shop. He was of Attise’s height, with a high forehead, dark hair, and a beard of more gray than black. “Lovely work, that, lovely work. Some of my best.” He approached and indicated an item. “There, you see? Delicacy, that’s my specialty. You won’t find many who can manage work like that.” He seemed delighted by his own expertise.
“It is lovely,” Attise admitted.
“Oh, yes, and—” He held up one finger. “— if silver’s too dear for your purse, I can do much the same in pewter.” He bustled over to a second case, sifted through its contents casually, and came back with a dusky twin of Will’s ring, with a paler stone.
Attise took the ring and studied it. By now Will knew her conceits from her genuine reactions, and he realized with some surprise that she was keenly interested. “Where do you get the stones?” she asked the shopkeeper.
“Ah. Well.” He drummed his fingers and pursed his lips. “Garnets from the schist in the local hills, lots of that, as you can see; but people always underestimate its versatility, don’t you agree? Peridots, they’re from the north, and someone came in last year with a lovely chunk of tourmaline—never saw anything like it, and I think you’ll agree I’ve put it to good use . . .” He wandered to another case.
Attise turned to Will. “Isn’t your mother’s best dress blue? Or was it violet?”
“Ha, ha.” The jeweler shook a finger at her. “Now, you can’t fool me, not in a town like this, tongues wagging all the time. You’re not idly passing the time. You’re a merchant, and you’re inspecting my goods to see what you can use. Well, I’m more than glad to help you, and I’ll even give you a hint: Volume discount is a distinct possibility, yes. Especially with these garnets. Really, I can’t seem to get rid of them.”
Attise replied with careful casualness. “But garnets are so . . . common, in so many places.”
“Oh ho.” His brown eyes crinkled, and he bounced on the balls of his feet. “The unusual,” he said expressively, then paused for effect like a showman.
He stepped back to a cupboard against the wall, unlatched it, and pulled out two small trays covered with black velvet, which he carefully placed on top of a display of garnets. Then he stepped aside to view the reaction.
Will’s response was an involuntary “Oh . . .”
“Incredible,” Attise breathed.
The works displayed were all constructed of larger and smaller panels of a rich gem. Shifting light fragmented the color into every shade of blue, in shapes that reminded Will of frost flowers on the surface of frozen wate
r.
Each panel, large and small, was embellished with silver inlay: intricate geometric patterns, emblems, and in some cases even landscapes. One necklace of startling beauty showed scenes from a hunt: in the center panel, a stag, wild-eyed, leaped a rushing brook, hounds in pursuit, all perfectly depicted in tiny silver lines.
“What’s the stone?” Attise asked. “And how do you manage to cut it so thin?”
“Oh, now . . .” The jeweler pursed his lips. “I’m not about to let that little secret out, am I?” He indicated the trays emphatically. “There’s no one else who can do that work, no one but me. And of course, the more rare something is . . .”
“Of course.” Attise’s mouth twisted, and she examined the hunt necklace again. “But these silver lines . . . are they filigree? It doesn’t seem possible.”
“Well . . .” He surrendered to a need to boast. “No, they’re not constructed at all. You see—” He leaned close and pointed at the stag. “I etch the patterns, with a tool of my own devising—very fine as you can see. Then I set the gem in a wash . . .” Attise shifted her attention to the man’s face, listening intently as he explained. “The wash is an adhesive, and when it dries, well, I polish the surface of the gem, just a bit, and the adhesive comes off the surface and stays in the etches.”
Attise thought a moment, then blinked. “Then you pass it through a wash of molten silver?”
The jeweler clapped his hands and laughed. “Well, there you are! That’s exactly what I do! And the silver stays in the lines.”
Attise nodded distractedly and ran her index finger across the face of one panel. “And you seal it with . . . is this a varnish?”
“Something like,” he conceded. “More of a gum, really . . . now wait, wait a bit.” He came to himself and shook a finger at her. “Here, now. I can’t go telling you everything, can I? That’s not good business.”
She laughed. “No. Not at all. Forgive me, I have some interest in the craft.” She turned back to the display. “I might find some customers for such work. Do you manage to sell many?”
“The process is tricky,” he admitted reluctantly. “I find I have to charge more than people hereabouts and coming through are willing to pay. Except for the smaller pieces; actually, some of those move quite nicely.” He indicated a group of brooches and a trio of tiny pendants. Too small for scenes, they were decorated with simple geometric designs.
Something about the brooches jogged Willam’s memory. Abruptly, he remembered that Ingrud had worn one as a clasp on her cloak. He was about to comment, but stopped himself when he could not recall how Ingrud’s known movements would intersect with Attise’s pretended ones.
“What about these rings?” Attise asked the jeweler.
The little man winced. “Not at all popular, I have to admit. A bit of an error on my part. People don’t seem to like to wear them where the gem touches their skin.” Willam touched one experimentally and found the oily surface eerie and unpleasant.
Attise sifted through the rings and found one with a simple but striking design. She began to slip it on her middle finger, then stopped and shifted it to the third. “I see what you mean,” she told the jeweler. “But they do serve as a good example of your technique.” She turned to him. “I’d like to give this some thought.”
“Of course, of course! Mustn’t rush into things, but I don’t have any doubts, my work is unique! Still, think, and come back later. Take that ring to keep, if you like,” he waved his hand. “No charge, call it a sample. Just as well to be rid of it, actually.” He tapped his cheek thoughtfully. “Now, if you come back, make it the evening, if you don’t mind. I have a little something to do; in fact, I ought to leave now.”
“Business?” Attise asked nonchalantly.
“Ho ho!” He bounced again. “Business of a personal sort. A lovely little lady, housemaid down at the first farm up the main road. It’s her afternoon free, but she never goes far, her mistress is an invalid, very devoted, she is. Now, if you want to talk sooner, you come there, ask for my Ammalee. Don’t worry about interrupting, business before pleasure . . .” He bustled off, closing and locking cases, then pulling the tall shutters in. Attise looked long at her ring, eyes narrowed in thought, oblivious to all else, until the jeweler hurried them out and locked the door.
They returned to their lodgings, Attise in a black, silent mood, impervious to questions. Back at the ivy-covered house, they found Sala sitting on a bench in the sunlight with a group of small packages and a disgruntled expression. “I never met such a closed-mouthed lot. You’d think I was a criminal, the way they brushed me off. I could hardly get them to do business.”
Attise tested the grass, found it too wet, and settled down beside Sala. “What did you get?”
“Some cheese, dried meat, and hardbread.” Sala, catching Attise’s amused look, gave a wry half smile, and continued. “No gossip, no details. The war hardly bothered them. They’ve had no contact with wizard’s troops. The potter moved here ten years ago. Everyone else has been here forever.”
“We did a little better. Here.” Attise slipped off the ring and passed it to Sala. The mercenary studied it with suspicion.
“It’s the same.”
Attise nodded.
“Ingrud was right?”
“No.” Attise thumped one knee in frustration. “No, it seems—” She moved her hands as if there were something between them. “It seems as if it ought to fit, but it’s all too facile.” She dropped her hands. “I talked awhile with the potter. As it happens, he grew up near the place I did, and he was quite open with me, for a while.” Sala was interested, and Attise made to continue, paused, then looked significantly at Willam.
He bristled. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Will—”
“I do whatever you want, but you never tell me anything. You’re just using me—”
Sala interrupted. “Of course we are. And you’re using us. It seems fair to me. Now go away.”
“But I could help you better. And maybe you could help me better, too, and easier, if I knew what was going on.” He turned from one to the other, Sala’s face stubborn, Attise’s full of weary exasperation. “Maybe you think I’m not much, but I’m not stupid, I can see things too. Why did the people stop being friendly?”
“What?” Sala was taken aback, but Attise watched him closely.
“The potter said that people here were friendly to strangers, but they weren’t friendly to you, or to me. The jeweler was friendly to Attise, but the weaver wasn’t.” Calmer, he sat on the wet grass and looked at Attise intently. “It’s something to do with that jeweler. Something important is going on here, isn’t it?”
Attise hesitated, then said, “I hope so.”
“You don’t know for sure?”
“Not yet.”
“What will you do if you find out there is?”
Her mouth twisted. “Run away.”
“And report this to Shammer and Dhree?”
The women exchanged glances; then Attise took a moment to think. She leaned forward. “What did you take from the potter’s shop?” Sala looked surprised at the change of subject, then watched Willam with renewed interest.
Will was not surprised at all. “There’s some stuff that grows on stone walls, and in caves. In Langtry, we had a lot of it. People had to scrape down their walls regularly, especially in cellars.”
“And?”
He knew what she wanted and shrugged uncomfortably. “And I use it in my charms.”
“What does it do?”
With great reluctance, he said, “It works with the other things in a spell, one of the spells I know.”
Attise said nothing else, but sat watching him, waiting.
“I don’t think I should tell you anything else,” Will said at last.
Willam noticed with some surprise that Sala was looking at Attise as if concerned for her. She touched the merchant’s arm to get her attention. “Don’t press the boy. I think
it’s a good thing. The more magic the common folk know, the better matters will go for everyone.”
Surprisingly, Attise made no protest against the comment, but only stirred uncomfortably. “I don’t have enough information.”
Suddenly Willam noticed that Attise was tired—no, exhausted. She seemed weak and worn, and her expression bleak. She turned away. “Willam,” she began, not looking at him. “I’m sorry that you think I’m being unfair. It’s not my doing, it’s the situation.”
“You mean that because of your mission, you get to push me around.”
Her voice was flat. “I don’t mean to push you. I simply do what I need to do. It’s because I don’t do what you want me to that you have a problem. Now, please leave for a while, so that Sala and I can discuss this.”
Watching her, Willam slowly recognized again what Sala had pointed out to him once: that this woman was doing something against her own will, acting in a way that she hated. Sala had meant it differently, but now he realized it was true in a deeper sense. Somehow, in some important way, Attise was helpless.
His anger evaporated, and what was left, surprisingly, was pity. “If you don’t like working for Shammer and Dhree,” he said, “why don’t you quit?”
She closed her eyes and shook her head, and Willam could not tell if that meant that she could not quit, or that she could not tell him why, or that she did not want to talk about it. He began to wonder if it was possible to quit the service of a wizard, if it was permitted at all. Perhaps Shammer and Dhree would do something terrible to her if she tried. Perhaps they were no better than Abremio—maybe there was no difference between the behaviors of Blue and Red. But that could not be; there had to be some difference.
Suddenly he wished, truly and sincerely, that he could do something to help Attise. Without preamble, he said, “When I’m a wizard, I won’t do this to people.”
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