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?”