found in any household of the Empire. Even with her S’danzo gifts focused on the
shard it remained stubbornly common. Illyra looked at Wale-grin’s icy green
eyes, his thought-protruded brows, the set of his chin atop the studded greave
on his forearm, and thought better of telling him what she actually saw.
‘Its secrets are locked deeply within it. To a casual glance its disguises are
perfect. Only prolonged examination will draw its secrets out.’ She placed the
shard back on the table.
‘How long?’
‘It would be hard to say. The gift is strengthened by symbolic cycles. It may
take until the cycle of the shard coincides…’
‘I know the S’danzo! I was there with you and your mother -don’t play bazaar
games with me. Little Sister. I know too much.’
Illyra sat back on her bench. The dagger in her skirts clunked to the floor.
Walegrin bent over to pick it up. He turned it over in his hands and without
warning thrust it through the velvet into the table. Then, with his palm against
the smooth of the blade, he bent it back until the hilt touched the table. When
he removed his hand the knife remained bent.
‘Cheap steel. Modern stuff; death to the one who relies on it,’ he explained,
drawing a sleek knife from within the greave. He placed the dark-steel blade
with the beads and bracelets. ‘Now, tell me about my pottery.’
‘No bazaar-games. If I didn’t know from looking at you, I’d say it was a broken
piece of ‘cotta. You’ve had it a long time. It shows nothing but its
associations with you. I believe it is more than that, or you wouldn’t be here.