Pizlo wanted to cry sometimes. But he didn’t now, and he couldn’t indulge the clerk’s feelings. He had to get going. He needed the things he’d gathered, and had already used some of the dye. He couldn’t just take everything though. “I know you’re not supposed to look at me. Or listen to anything I say. I know those are the rules. But prophecies trump rules. They have to. Rules look backward, they’re blind to the situations that might come up after someone makes them. But prophecies only look forward. So they’re more important. Okay?”
The clerk only fanned his ears faster. He called out as if to a customer down one of the aisles. “Those are on special today. Three for the price of two. One day only!” Maybe there was even someone back there, but Pizlo didn’t turn to look. He reached up, put his hands flat on the counter, and whispered.
“Psst, whatever else you do … don’t look at my chest!”
Confused, the clerk did just that, and then immediately averted his gaze.
Stepping back and striking what he hoped was a dramatic pose, Pizlo dropped his voice as low as he could. “I am the bearer of the mark of the seven moons. Three I have seen. By the time I have looked on all seven, I will see you repaid. This is the … the prophecy of the shop. Remember it, even though you are not allowed to remember me.” He scooped up all his purchases, transferring a few from the basket into the remaining empty mesh bag, tossed all three across his shoulder, and left the store.
He’d been right. He didn’t need an aleph. He had moons.
FOURTEEN. IMPROPER IMPLICATIONS
IT was one thing for a widow living alone to invite a man who was an old family friend into her home for dinner. Fant males were notorious for poor nutrition, resulting as much from a disinclination to learn basic culinary skills as a seemingly innate ability to burn water. But let that young widow visit that same male friend at his own apartment and entire leagues of gossips would chatter for days at the implications of impropriety.
Not that anything would ever happen with Jorl, Tolta was sure of that. She’d given up caring what other people thought about her when Pizlo had been born, the unexpected child she’d refused to deny. She’d entered into local lore, and had no doubt that more than one grandmother in Keslo told frightening bedtime stories of the Abomination’s mother living among them. People whispered about her anytime she passed by, it was no more preposterous to have them whispering about alleged affairs with Jorl ben Tral. As if that was the only reason she might have to seek him out.
In point of fact, she’d gone to his home in response to the note she’d found on her door. He’d often left similar missives in the past when going off with Arlo on the sort of foolhardy errand or misguided adventure that the two men should have worked out of their systems back in their teens. Hard won experience had taught her to ignore the innocence in his message and pursue whatever he wasn’t bothering to tell her. She intended to confront him face to face before he went off and did something beyond stupid again, like joining the Patrol.
But she’d arrived too late and all her carefully rehearsed patient-but-firm phrases went unspoken. Bother.
She wandered down the boardway from Jorl’s front door, passing such shops as catered to bachelors: an all-night health club, a soup and salad bar, a spirits shop, and more. She paused in front of a bookshop that she knew Jorl frequented, and on a whim entered. It was a charming little store, full of paper clutter and endless bookshelves that all seemed to have been made by different hands. A tiny bell above the door announced her arrival and an unseen woman called out, “I’ll be right with you” from down some aisle or other.
Tolta browsed, absently wondering what she might pick up to tempt Pizlo to linger one night. He had mentioned borrowing books from Jorl, but perhaps he’d like to have one or more all his own.
“Don’t rush on my account. I’m just looking.”
A Lox younger than herself came around a corner supporting a massive tome with both hands and trunk. She heaved it up onto a counter with an audible grunt, blushed, wiped her brow and smiled as she gave Tolta her full attention.
“Turning people who are ‘just looking’ into paying customers is one of the challenges of the job. Are you ‘just looking’ for anything in particular?”
“In terms of purpose, yes. But as to content, no, not really. I’m looking for something my son might like. He’s somewhat precocious and rabidly curious.”
The clerk paused and Tolta chided herself. It was possible that a younger woman might not recognize her at a glance, but mentioning Pizlo — even if not by name — would be all the trigger anyone on Keslo would need to bring her story to mind. It was just one more thing she didn’t want to deal with this day. She turned to go.
“I think I’ve seen him.”
Tolta paused in midstep. Seen him? No one saw Pizlo, or if they did, couldn’t admit to it. Since Arlo’s death, only two people in the world willingly saw her son. She turned back.
“Excuse me?”
“He … didn’t come into the shop. I only noticed him because of the man who did come in. They’d arrived together but your son waited outside for him. He’d been in earlier to order some specialty items and dropped by to inquire if they’d arrived yet. The man, I mean, not your son.”
Tolta smiled. “That would be Jorl ben Tral.”
“Oh! You know him? Wait, of course you do, or you wouldn’t trust your son in his care. Sorry, I … I just get a bit flustered.” The clerk’s cheeks reddened and she turned half away, busying herself with rearranging some books on a handy shelf.
“Flustered? Because of Jorl? Whatever for?”
She stilled her hands on the shelf and turned back to Tolta with a gleam in her eye and a giddy shyness that the older woman hadn’t seen since slumber parties back when she lived in the vast house with her mother and aunts and cousins.
“He just … wasn’t what I expected.”
“You were expecting something?”
“Yes. I mean, no, not really. I … I haven’t been in Keslo long. But when I arrived and took this job I learned that the newest Bearer lived nearby. Someone like that, someone who’s done things, enough to earn an aleph! I thought maybe I might see him once or twice, but he comes into the shop all the time.”
“He is fond of his books.” Tolta smiled and found herself warming to the girl. “Mind you, he’s written more than a few himself.”
“Oh, I know. I stock them all. I have a section devoted to him, two whole shelves. Have you read his work? I have. I’ve read all of them. I never thought anyone could make history so interesting.”
“You sound like you have quite the crush on him.”
“No … not really. I mean, nothing could ever come of it. He’s too important a person. He’d never even notice me.”
Having known Jorl most of her life, Tolta had never thought of him as important. He’d just always been there, carousing around with Arlo, standing Second at their wedding and again at her husband’s funeral, helping fill the void in Pizlo’s life. When he’d left on his scatter-brained adventure with the Patrol he had left a hole in their lives. When he’d returned, she’d wept when she’d realized how much she welcomed his unasked-for support. How had she not noticed that she was the only one on Barsk who didn’t see him any differently than before he’d gone? A celebrity? Of a sort. But important? Whatever Jorl’s other faults, ego was not among them. If he hadn’t noticed the obvious interest of a pretty and bookish woman it had more to do with his own distraction than anything resembling importance. She smiled as she recalled all the stupid things he and Arlo — and sometimes all three of them — had done.