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BRANN WENT WANDERING through the Jade-Halimm Market. It was famous through
half the world, as much for the look of the place as for the rarities sold
there, a spacious sunny place with ancient vines coiling over equally ancient
lattices, living walls for the market stalls that were handed down from father
to son, mother to daughter. They kept herds of small green lizards to eat the
ivy clean of insects and sponged dust off the leaves every morning so these
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shone like the jade that gave the city its name. She saw a potter s stall and
stopped to look over the wares, picked up a simple unglazed cup, ran her
fingers over it, made of a clay strange to her, a pleasant red-brown, thin,
tough, with a satisfying solidity. She held it and felt a shock of
recognition, a rightness so strong it burned like fire through her. The
stall-keeper, a handsome young woman, was busy with another customer; Brann
fidgeted impatiently, caressing the cup as she waited, liking it more the
longer she held it, When the woman came to her, she held it up. Who made
this?
My grandfather, Kuralyn. Dayan Acsic.
Does he take pupils? She set the cup down with great care, so tense she was
afraid of breaking it.
Yes. You would like to meet him?
Yes. She sighed, then smiled. Yes, very much indeed.
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