Fury raced through Briar’s veins. He dismounted, wrapping the horse’s reins in one hand. The donkey, its lead rein tied to the horse, grumbled and dropped a pancake of dung on the dirt before the lady’s gate. The horse did the same.
Briar glared at the Vipers. “What kind of gang are you?” he demanded. Ayasha sighed and went to sit with the others. Briar paid her no attention as he went on, “You come in daylight and sit on your heels out here like so many tame dogs. How stupid can you be? It’s folk like her that keep folk like us poor. She —”
“Folk like us?” repeated the short, black-skinned youth Briar had seen before. “What do you know of being poor? Who are you to talk to us of gangs?”
“I spent ten years in Deadman’s District in Hajra,” Briar said tightly. “Six of them in a gang, the Lightnings. I fought rats for bread and stole to keep the Thief-Lord from whipping the skin off my back. Once I had a chance to get out, I took it. All I have, I earned. I didn’t get it waiting for the scraps from a takameri’s table! She’s the enemy, her and all the nobles like her —”
“She is Shaihun’s creation,” interrupted one of them as he stood. He was tall, lean, and familiar, the youth who had told Briar that something that talked and walked like a dog was probably a dog. Fading bruises circled his eyes. “No eknub can understand submission to Shaihun.”
“Besides, she’s going to make us the top gang in the city,” added the short, black Viper. “Gate Lords are already milling like scared sheep. They don’t know who’s next since their tesku went missing.”
“If you had any weight as a gang, you wouldn’t need anyone but your mates,” Briar informed them bitterly. “Doesn’t it shame you, taking orders from the likes of her?”
He’d allowed himself to be distracted from the tall Viper, who had drifted closer. Now he leaped on Briar, seized him by the shirt, threw him to the ground and landed on top of him, hands around Briar’s throat. At least Briar’s hands had not been napping, unlike his brain. He dug the points of his unsheathed wrist knives into the Viper’s sides. The taller boy ignored them, despite the tiny rounds of blood that flowered on his shirt.
“She has graced us with her attention,” he snarled at Briar. “Don’t talk about something you don’t understand.” He relaxed his grip on Briar’s neck.
“What I understand is that you’re a sworn member of the daftie guild,” retorted Briar. Mentally he kicked himself for letting this fellow get so close. “Don’t you see you’re in a tight place, tighter maybe than you can escape?”
“Ikrum, no.” Ayasha wrapped her hands around the thin Viper’s arm. “The pahan’s all right. He just don’t understand.” She tugged Ikrum’s arm. “He’s a friend in a pinch, though. Yoru, help me,” she told the short black youth.
“He doesn’t respect her,” Ikrum protested.
“He don’t have to. He isn’t sworn to her.” Yoru took Ikrum’s other arm. Carefully he and Ayasha pried their tesku’s hands off Briar’s neck. To Briar, Yoru said, “Sheath your knives. He didn’t even bruise you.”
“Get him off me first,” snapped Briar. “Before I teach him a lesson none of you will forget.” Yoru and Ayasha pulled Ikrum to his feet.
Briar wiped the bloody points of his knives in the dust as he sat up, then resheathed them. He looked up at Ikrum, still in the grip of his two followers.
“If you want my opinion, you’ll get away from her.” He nodded toward the gate. “She’s no goddess, just a takameri who’s mad with power. She’ll eat you all if she gets the chance.” Briskly he removed his over robe and shook the dust from its folds.
“He’s a good tesku,” snapped another Viper, a golden-skinned boy. “We’ve done better with him than any other.”
“If he’s done you so much good,” Briar replied, slapping the dirt from the seat of his breeches, “why are you out here in the sun like a pack of hounds?”
“I’m all right,” Ikrum snapped, jerking himself away from his keepers. He strode over to Briar, pressing his hands against the small wounds in his sides. Holding up his blood-marked fingers, he licked them clean. “You stuck me,” he said casually, and gave a toothy smile. “You won’t do that twice.”
Briar stood on tiptoe to glare into his eyes. “You won’t get another chance at me, play-toy boy,” he said quietly. “Now, rethink your life, before she takes it from you and leaves you on a garbage heap.” He thrust a foot into one stirrup and mounted his horse. “Because you aren’t one of hers, no matter what she says, and unless you’re one of hers, you’re just a thing to be used.” Briar surveyed the other Vipers. “And you’re a bunch of sheep if you let him do it.” He urged his horse into a walk.
An image of his past had come into his mind at the mention of garbage heaps. He’d been five or six, perhaps, when he stole a fine scarf. Two older boys had taken it, leaving Briar to grub in the garbage behind an inn, hoping to find a morsel of food. The Thief-Lord had met him there. He’d offered food, and a gang, and mates who wouldn’t beat him up and take his prizes. By the time Briar learned that the two older boys belonged to another of the Thief-Lord’s gangs and that they often set things up so street kids would be grateful to the Thief-Lord, he was being trained as an all-around thief.
So what makes me different from the Vipers? he wondered gloomily, studying one of his palms. The inked green vines had not managed to conquer his right hand entirely. The scarred welt that crossed his palm would not take the dyes, forcing the vines to twine around the three deep pockmarks where thorns had marked him for life.
Long before Niko had taken him to Winding Circle, Briar had scaled a rich man’s wall. When he touched a thick, woody stem on top, the thing had wrapped around his hand, snake-like. Its thorns had clung to his flesh well after Briar cut the stem free. The Thief-Lord had sent him up there, to steal a white stone statue that he wanted for himself. It hadn’t put food in the mouths of Briar’s gang. Not only that, but he’d suffered for days after prying out those thorns, until the Thief-Lord had grudgingly paid a cheap healer to see to the wounds.
Only difference between the lady and him was that she’s born noble, Briar thought gloomily as he came to the intersection of the Attaneh Road and the Karang Road. I was just as stupid as these Vipers. As all of us in kid gangs. There’s always someone older around, telling us what to do, who to rob, beating us when we don’t do or say or think what they want. We put up with it because they tell us we mean something — but we don’t. Not to them. All we are to them is a tool for making them important.
And I wanted that for Evvy?
So preoccupied was he that he didn’t realize he had company until his horse shied. Briar fumbled to get a better grip on the reins and brought the horse up with a firm hand. Five horsemen waited ahead, blocking his advance. They wore the orange shirts and trousers and the black turban of the Watch, the city’s law enforcers. All had weighted batons tucked into their black sashes. One carried a tall lance with a flag at the tip: an orange sun on a black field, the badge of the Watch and of its commander, the mutabir. He was the amir’s right hand and the law inside Chammur’s walls.
Briar looked behind him. Five more horsemen of the Watch rode out of a blind alley to cut off his retreat.
One of the men ahead rode forward until he was a yard from Briar. “Pahan Briar Moss of Winding Circle temple and Summersea in Emelan,” he intoned in a wooden voice. “You are invited to speak with Mutabir Kemit doen Polumri. At once.”
Old instinct and new learning fought bitterly in his head. Instinct told him to leap from his horse’s back and run, as far and as fast as he could. He clenched his teeth and fought it, sweating. He wasn’t a thief anymore, wasn’t a street kid, wasn’t meat for the Watch to grind up and spit out. He was a citizen, a pahan, not a criminal. Citizens didn’t run from the Watch.
Still, what did he do to get the notice of a mutabir, who governed the Watch and courts of Sotat? Unless they thought he was stirring up the gangs?
“Why?” Briar demanded.
“I’m an eknub, just passing through.”
“The mutabir will explain, when you are presented to him,” replied the one who had spoken first. The pale white wall on either side of Attaneh Road now sported green crowns, as trees and vines stretched and grew over the top. Rosevines snaked down the street side of the wall. Had the Watchmen noticed them?
Stop it, he told the plants, putting all of his will into the command. I’m fine. “Very well,” he said, wanting to get these men away before they noticed the greenery’s odd behavior and tried to do something about it. “But this had better be important.”
He nudged his horse forward; the Watchmen ahead wheeled their mounts and led the way. Briar glanced back to see if the rest followed: he might still escape if they didn’t. No, they were moving forward, all but one. That one was bent in the saddle, listening intently to two people. One was a woman dressed like a local servant, the other a man whose sand-colored clothes made him look like part of the walls or of the dirt underfoot. The woman finished first. Hoisting a large jar on her hip, she trotted up the road and out of sight around the bend. The man faded into the blind alley, and the Watchman they’d spoken to caught up with the rest.
Who are they watching on this street? Briar wondered as he faced front again. He knew the look of police informers and official stakeouts. The mutabir was looking at someone on Attaneh Road, looking hard.
The ride to the mutabir’s residence, at the base of Justice Rock, was a short one. Briar used the time to let the plants that grew along the way know he’d been there, in case Rosethorn had to come after him. There was nothing to distract him from talking to them — the Watchmen were as closemouthed as stones.
Ordinary folk got out of their way quickly. Briar wasn’t sure if that meant the Watch were respected and appreciated, or simply feared. Either way boded ill for a former street thief. He checked his hands often to reassure himself that his arrest tattoos had indeed been consumed by the green vines under his skin. As if they sensed his unease, the vines on his left hand sprouted gaudy blue and yellow blooms. The ones on the right sported tiny black roses.
Servants at the mutabir’s residence took Briar’s horse and donkey, while his escort led him on foot through an outer courtyard. On either side stood the Watch comman-derie and Justice Hall, crouched like guardian dogs, the shuttered windows staring blindly at one another. Both were massive structures of some kind of granite, rare stone for that part of the country. Briar shivered as he walked between them.
Passing through a gate on the far side of the courtyard, the Watchmen led him through a beautifully arranged desert garden. Briar felt a softening in his attitude — it was hard to dislike people who enjoyed gardens like the Chammurans did — and hardened his heart. Gardens or no, he didn’t like the way things were done here. Duke Vedris’s fair, if heavy, hand in such matters back in Emelan had soured Briar on Sotat law and courts.
From the garden he was shown into a sprawling house. Immediately to their right as they entered was a large and airy chamber, walled and floored in cool white marble, with green and red stone vine inlays along the ceiling and floors. The shutters were open, but the insides of the windows were covered with carved wooden screens to keep people from seeing into the house. Pillows were scattered on the floor, for supplicants, Briar supposed. At the far end of the room, bracketed by Watchmen who carried long spears, was a marble dais covered with long, flat cushions; other small, plump cushions were heaped on it.
A man sat there, sipping from a tiny coffee cup. As he did so, he turned papers over with his free hand. Papers and coffee pot were placed on two short wooden tables.
A second person — was it a man? — sat on the edge of the dais, legs crossed under him. He wore the head-to-toe veil of a Mohunite; only dark eyes showed through the slit left for them. Unlike the blue one Mai had worn to hide from the Gate Lords, this veil was dark gray. The wearer would be a Mohunite initiate — a mage.
A third person, a veiled scribe, sat at a full-sized table in the shadows at the rear of the dais. Briar could only see hands and painted eyelids: the scribe was a woman. She wrote busily, her work illuminated by a brass lamp.
The sight of her made Briar feel slightly more comfortable. He wondered if he would ever get used to the way that women east of the Pebbled Sea were expected to keep to homes and families. Few were encouraged to work in the larger world as the women he knew did. The mutabir must be all right, if he hired a woman for a sensitive job like this.
The head of the Watch detachment came to attention and said, “This youth, who our contact says is a pahan named Briar Moss, an eknub from Summersea, came to the house of Lady Zenadia doa Attaneh this morning, Lord Mutabir, as did the pahan Jebilu Stoneslicer. This youth was inside the house for a period of two hours, in the matter of a miniature tree. When he left the house, we followed our orders and conveyed him to you. Pahan Jebilu remains at the house.”
“Very well, Hedax Yoson.” The coffee-drinker’s voice was deep and melodic, a huge voice for a slender man. “You and your squad are dismissed.” The mutabir dressed simply for a Chammuran of power in loose breeches of dark green linen, a white shirt, black sash, and a long-sleeved, dark green overrobe. He had no jewelry or embroidery; no braids hung below his crisp, white turban. He watched the Watchmen file from the room and nodded to Briar. “You may approach.”
Right then Briar knew he’d been with Rosethorn, Sandry, and Tris for much too long. Their part of him demanded that he stay where he was, prop his fists on his hips, and demand to know what was going on before he went any further. They did that a lot, no matter how much trouble it caused. Against them Briar put his street rat self. He had survived ten years by smiling, bowing, agreeing, mouthing “your highnesses” to anyone and everyone, and running the moment a chance was offered.
The street rat won, in a way. “May it please your highness, I’d like to know what the charge is.” He smiled, trying for charm.
“Have you done anything worthy of a charge?” the mutabir inquired. He sat up, putting down both coffee cup and papers. Whites and blacks had crossed on his family map often, Briar decided. His face was very light brown and splattered with freckles. It was impossible to see his hair, covered as it was by his turban, but his moustache was dark brown and full.
“Never did anything lawless, never will, highness,” Briar answered.
The gray-veiled mage raised a small crystal orb in fingers painted with henna designs. Red light danced in the orb’s depths. “He lies, my lord.” The voice was female.
The mutabir raised his eyebrows. “Interesting,” he mused. “Would you like to answer the question a second time, young pahan?”
Briar glared at the mage. “I haven’t done anything recently,” he amended. The red lights in the crystal winked out. “I’m all respectable now.” Something shimmered in the depths of the stone and was gone. “Is there a truth spell on that thing?” he asked the mage. “How’d you put it on? Most truthsayers just look to tell if they’re lied to or not.”
The mage looked at the man on the dais, who nodded. She replied, “I purchased this device ready-made, from Jebilu Stoneslicer. The spells must be renewed every three years, but the procedure is simple enough.”
“Huh!” exclaimed Briar. “So the old pickle had some juice in him, once.”
“Why did you go to Lady Zenadia’s house?” asked the mutabir.
Briar looked at him. “I sold her a miniature larch — it’s a kind of pine, good for protecting against fire. I had to install it in a new dish and in the right place in her house.”
The mutabir searched through papers until he held one up. “According to our observers, you met the lady in the Golden House souk yesterday.”
“That’s when she bought the tree,” Briar explained.
“Did you see anything unusual in her house?” the mutibir wanted to know. “Hear anything, smell anything?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Briar pointed out. “I’ve never been there before, to know
what was usual and what wasn’t.” The mutabir said nothing, but regarded him steadily. After a moment Briar added, “She has a good gardener.” The mutabir continued to stare.
Briar scratched his head. Surely the lady’s troubles, gang, or habits were no supper of his; the same was true of the mutabir’s concerns. He certainly wasn’t inclined to start tattling to the law in this stage of his life.
“Where are you from?” the mage asked, her voice breaking the silence so abruptly that Briar twitched.
“Summersea in Emelan,” he replied without looking away from the mutabir.
“Partially true,” the mage announced.
Briar glared at her. “Don’t that thing tell you when answers are complicated?” he demanded. “I was born in Hajra, but I went to Summersea when I was ten.”
The mage’s hand held up the crystal globe. “Stones are simple creations — rather direct, as most mages learn. You claim to be a true pahan. How can you not know this?”
Briar sighed. “I am a true pahan. You don’t know how true. Just not with stones.” He walked up to the mage, drawing his pendant out and holding it so she could see. As she leaned in to look at it, he showed her the far side as well. Without warning, she grabbed his hands and inspected them, tracing a vine with a hennaed fingertip. The vine moved under Briar’s skin, following her fingertip like a fascinated snake.
Freeing him, she made a noise that sounded a great deal like “hmpf.” She straightened and nodded at the mutabir.
With a flick of the hand the man sent everyone else, guards and scribe alike, from the room. Only when he, the mage, and Briar were alone did the mutabir tell Briar, “This is Pahan Turaba Guardsall. She is my aide.”
Briar nodded to the veiled woman. “I still don’t see why I’m here.”
“Lady Zenadia doa Attaneh is the amir’s aunt,” Turaba said. Her voice was curt and slightly muffled by her veil. “She bought our prince his first pony. She is godmother to his oldest son and daughter. There are Attanehs in the army, all three priesthoods, the amir’s council, and the council of nobles. She is even a distant cousin of the king who reigns from far Hajra.”
The Circle Opens #2: Street Magic: Street Magic - Reissue Page 16