Kushiel's Chosen

the village, Kazan's house was built of stone; blocks of creamy marble quarried on a nearby isle and brought by water to Dobrek. It lay a short walk from the village proper on a rocky escarpment on the bay, gazing out at the sea. A stand of cypresses provided a charming screen, and there were colorful, late-blooming vines I could not name sending tendrils up the marble walls. The house itself was low and meandering, and large enough to be a nobleman's estate. At any given time, it housed not only Kazan, but a small staff and three or four of his men who had quarters of their own. There was a stable, too, with two horses in it; the only ones on the isle. For everything else, they used donkeys.
    Kazan was waiting for us on the terrace overlooking the sea when we arrived, flanked by two of his men. His black, topknotted mane was glossy with recent brushing and he wore loose trousers tucked into boots, and over his shirt, a close-fitting vest decorated with Illyrian embroidery. The strip of beard on his chin was fresh-shaven, and even the points of his mustache had been waxed to sharp perfection.
    "Lady Phèdre," he announced, bowing, mangling my name only a little. "I welcome you to my house, I! You are my honored guest on Dobrek, eh?"
    His men followed suit, staring at me and elbowing each other. Since there was nothing else for it, I curtsied. "Mirë daj, Kazan Atrabiades. Falemir dít; I thank you for your hospitality."
    He started at my greeting him in Illyrian, gazing at me open-mouthed. It showed the gap of his missing molar and rather ruined the overall effect of his appearance. He must have realized it, for he closed his mouth and said hastily, "You did not say you spoke Illyrian, you!"
    "I don't, my lor-Kazan." The habit was not easily broken. "Only these few words, which I have learned in your tongue, that my pleas may fall more gently on your ears."
    He frowned. "You are like a dog with a bone, eh, worrying at it always! We will speak of this ransom in time, when / say. Now you are my guest, and Glaukos, he say you must rest still. So you will go, and do this." Turning away from me, Kazan raised his voice. "Marjopí!"
    A vast figure moved out of the shadow of the house's small arcade into the bright sun of the terrace; a woman, massive arms folded across her solid bosom. She was of middle years or older, though her hair, bound atop her head, was a black untouched by grey. Hard black eyes in a doughy face regarded me without favor.
    "Marjopí, she has been with me since I was a sucking babe, I. She will take care of you, eh? Marjopí! Të lesh gezuan, eh?" he added, calling to her.
    Marjopí-for that was her name-unleashed a stream of Illyrian invective at him, to which he retorted in the same. His lieutenants grinned unabashedly, and Glaukos shifted uncomfortably at my side.
    "What is it?" I asked him.
    "She thinks you're bad luck," he muttered. "The Illyrians; I told you, they're superstitious. Ah, now, she wouldn't be the first to claim D'Angeline beauty unnatural, but the spot in your eye, now, well, it seems the kríavbhog is a red-eyed beastie. It's something to do with that, I gather."
    "Mayhap she has the right of it," I answered dourly. Of a surety, the creature I'd seen-or thought I'd seen-had an incarnadine gaze, and I harbored no illusions but that I'd feel the prick of Kushiel's Dart soon enough.
    Whatever the cause of the argument, Kazan's will prevailed, and Marjopí conceded defeat with a sniff, nodding at me and jerking her head sharply toward the interior of the house. Given little choice in the matter, I made my thanks to Glaukos and followed her.
    Inside, the house was cool, well shaded by its cypress screen. The furnishings were quite fine, albeit mismatched; dark woods and ashen, inlay and scrollwork, Akkadian carpets with Hellene vases. I followed Marjopí to my chamber, which was quite small and barren, holding only a small clothing-press and a narrow bed over which a rich coverlet trimmed with marten had been arrayed. It had a window, which looked out toward the hills, and the shutters had been opened to let the room air.
    There Marjopí left me, and there I sat, perched on the narrow bed.
    It took no longer than it takes to core and eat an apple for me to grow bored. There are those who are able to endure enforced idleness with grace, spending their time in useful contemplation. Joscelin, who could maintain his Cassiline vigils for hours on end, was one such; save for a patron's whim