“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?”
“Me?” 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.
“I was admiring your trees.” Lady Zenadia’s voice was deep and lovely, unmuffled by her thin face-veil. “They are beautiful. How did you get them to grow so small?”
Briar gave the lady a bow, touching his heart, then his forehead, in the approved eastern manner. Waiting on people had never bothered him until the man called him a shopkeeper. “It takes a great deal of tending and patience, my lady,” he answered. From her clothes, jewels, and servants, she could afford his prices. “It’s an art, with each tree shaped to a particular form. Aside from beauty, they are used magically to draw certain qualities or luck to a home.”