Tamora Pierce - Street Magic

He sighed. Reaching into his satchel, he found a dumpling he’d brought as a snack for later. “Didn’t you stop at the house and beg something off Rosethorn?” he asked, passing her the dumpling and a clean cloth. “You’re wearing your new clothes.”

“I stopped and changed.” Evvy tucked the cloth into the neck of her orange tunic.

You never have to tell her to do a thing twice, Briar thought, watching her settle the napkin. Maybe I did push too hard yesterday. “So didn’t she feed you?”

Evvy pinched off some dumpling and stuck it in her mouth. Chewing vigorously, she said, “She had a pair of shears in her hand when I asked. She said if I bothered her today she’d snip my nose off, so I should pester you for something to eat when I got here,” she added, taking another bite.

“She wouldn’t’ve really cut your nose off,” Briar said. He realized with a feeling of destiny that he would probably buy her a larger breakfast shortly. “Just bloodied it a bit.”

“She’s fierce,” Evvy said admiringly. “I bet she scared Jooba-hooba plenty, to make him leave the palace.”

“If he’s going to be your teacher, you ought to say his proper name,” Briar informed her sternly, thinking of how the stone mage might react to being called “Jooba-hooba.”

“Or call him Master Stoneslicer.”

“I still don’t see why you can’t teach me,” Evvy replied, jaw set. “We were learning fine yesterday, right?”

Briar rested his head in his hands. It was going to be a long morning.

Evvy finished her dumpling as Golden House came to life. Briar placed his tree-working kit on the stall’s counter, and put his willow next to it. He was training it to the spiral form, which it liked far better than the cascade form it had when he’d bought it. Working gently, assuring the tree it wouldn’t feel a thing when he took off the brown leaves, he lost himself in his work for a time. So absorbed was he that when Evvy did speak again, he jumped. The willow dragged some of its branches over his hands, telling him that he ought to calm down.

“Now if you want a gang, that’s the one to belong to,” Evvy remarked. Briar looked where she did, and saw three people a year or two older than he was walk past their stall. One was a girl; the other two were boys. All three wore white, sleeveless tunics, black brocade sashes, and black trousers.

“What’s the sign—the tunic or the sash and breeches?” he asked, absently checking to make sure the willow’s earth was just damp enough.

“All three,” Evvy told him. “They’re Gate Lords. The biggest gang in the city, and the richest.”

“I thought you didn’t like gangs,” Briar said. The three slowed to look at his wares. He kept his eyes on them. If anyone tried to steal a tree, they would soon feel as if they carried the fully grown version, but he didn’t want trouble so early in the day.

“I don’t, but they’re the best, if you do like ’em.” Evvy watched as the three Gate Lords picked up speed again. “Are you joining them?”

Briar asked, startled. “Why in Mila’s name would I join?”

“You keep saying people ought to be ganged.”

“I meant you,” he said firmly. “I’m a mage—I don’t need protection. But you’d be safer if you were ganged up, at least till you master your magic.”

“Oh, safe” Evvy replied mockingly. “Those Camelguts looked really safe to me, all bloody and bruised.”

“But that’s gang wars,” he objected. “You have to keep other gangs off your ground. That doesn’t happen often…” He fell silent, remembering times his old gang had battled to chase off another gang, or to add to their territory. As he started to count the fights, he realized they’d come at least once a week. It was not a comfortable thought. “Why didn’t your local gang ever recruit you?” he asked, changing the subject. “Don’t you have gangs in Princes’ Heights?”

“My squat’s in Crusher ground,” she said, propping her head on her hands. “Tunnelers had it for a moon, then Crushers got it back. Tunnelers have been coming around again lately.”

“And neither gang tried to swear you?” he asked.

To his surprise Evvy nodded. “Lots of times. They just can’t seem to find my squat.” She smiled crookedly. “I used to think they was stupid, but…” She fell silent.

“But?” Briar prodded.

“I think the rock—Princes’ Heights—hides my place,” she said abruptly. She paused, then asked, “What was your gang’s sign?”

For some reason Briar looked at his hands, at the riot of vines and leaves that had eaten his jailhouse X’s. That wasn’t what she meant, of course. “A blue cloth around the right arm. I lost mine, the last time they arrested me and my mates.” Suddenly he didn’t want to talk about gangs any more. “Here,” he said, giving her a silver dav. “I’d like some pears and rye bread.” He pulled two cups from his satchel. “Get juice or tea or water, in these. And whatever you want for yourself.”

Evvy jumped down from the stool gleefully and accepted the cups. “I like being here with you,” she told Briar. “We’re practically respectable and all.” She trotted away, a cup hanging from each index finger.

Practically respectable, Briar thought wryly, going back to work on his willow. That’s me—just as respectable as is good for me, and not one whit more.

By the time Evvy returned, carefully balancing food purchases and Briar’s cup of water, three mage-students and their teacher had come to look at Briar’s trees. Evvy listened as they talked to Briar about improving the yield of herbs grown for spells, fidgeting as the conversation went on. Finally Briar sent her to polish stones for Nahim Zineer so he could chat in peace with mages who came by. Most could sense the power in the trees; all asked about Briar’s education. The mention of Winding Circle was enough to keep them around for half an hour, besieging him with questions. When a lull finally came, he didn’t welcome it: he was in the middle of another bout of homesickness.

He’d pulled out paper and begun a letter to Sandry when a man rapped on the counter. Briar looked up. The stranger was whipcord lean and plainly dressed with black and silver hair pulled tightly back from his face. His weapons were not so plain: their sheaths were black leather, but after years with Daja the metalsmith, Briar could tell the metalwork on the hilts of the sword and dagger was very good. There was a cold watchfulness in the man’s flat brown eyes. A bodyguard of some kind, Briar guessed.

“My lady Zenadia doa Attaneh would have speech with you, shopkeeper,” the man said harshly. His voice was a rusty croak, as if he seldom used it.

Briar looked beyond the man. A woman stood in the aisle, watching him. She was veiled from nose to chin, but judging by the lines around her large, well-made-up eyes, she was older, in her fifties or thereabouts. Her clothes spoke softly of real money: her blouse and skirts were discreet lavender silk, embroidered with silver thread; her sari was cloth-of-silver hemmed in lavender. Seed pearls weighted the edges of the gauzy veils on her face and hair. She wore a round, green stone drop between her eyebrows—Briar, who still struggled with different bindi, as the stones were called, couldn’t remember what green signified. She wore the tiniest hint of rosemary scent, just enough to refresh the air around her.

At her back stood a black-skinned mountain in tan linen. The cloth strained over rolls of fat and muscle. He was egg-bald and had the pudgy look of a eunuch. His eyes were a strange shade of gray that contrasted with his black skin: they were the emptiest eyes that Briar had ever seen. He carried a double-headed ax thrust through a brown sash.