Briar's Book (2 page)

Once they’d stopped for another rest – Briar noticed that Alleypup wheezed a great deal – the other boy remarked, “Flick says you was a jailbird.”

“Have a look.” Briar held both hands close to the lamp to let Alleypup see the dark blue X’s tattooed between his forefingers and thumbs. “They grabbed me up a third time, and I was on my way to the docks,” he said with pride. “But Niko – a teacher of mine – he saw my magic and bought me off the magistrate.”

“Never!” whispered Alleypup, startled.

Briar nodded. “Truth. He brung me to Winding Circle. I ended up in a house with three girls because he saw the magic in all of us.”

“Nobody saw you was magic before?” Alleypup inquired. “All the time you hear about this kid and that one gets fingered by a magic-sniffer and bundled off for lessoning.” Kid was street slang for a child. “And they’re usually real little kids.”

“Mine was strange,” Briar replied with a shrug. “So was my mates’ magics.
We
didn’t even know we had it, till Niko and Lark and Rosethorn and Frostpine started teaching us. Lark and Rosethorn boss the house we live in. Frostpine’s – ”

“Metal-mage,” said Alleypup. “Everyone knows him and Lark and Rosethorn.” He straightened and led the way again.

At last they entered the great tunnels under the oldest parts of the city. More care and attention went into these underground rivers and streets, in part because the network was centuries old, but also because the guilds, the wealthy merchants, and those nobles who kept houses in town lived overhead. Here Briar was glad to see walkways on both sides of the stone- or brick-lined canals. There were rats, of course; the stink made his head spin; and often they had to race by pipes about to dump sewage into the water, but at least they weren’t rubbing narrow walls covered with goo. These tunnels were built to last; what little earthquake damage they had suffered had been repaired with new brick and stone.

Not far from the point where they had entered the biggest tunnels, Alleypup turned into a lesser one. Ten yards down its length the street rats had yanked out bricks and dug into the earth, shaping a cave deep and broad enough to sleep a small gang. A lamp burned in a niche, casting a wavering glow over a pile of rags at the rear of the cave.

“It’s me.” Alleypup set his lamp on a ledge by the entrance. “I brung him.”

The girl who lay on the pile of rags sat up, peering at them. “Briar?”

He walked over and knelt beside his friend. Except for a ragged belly-wrap of some pale cloth, Flick was naked. Her skin, normally deep brown, was covered with even darker spots and blotches from hairline to toes. Some on her left shin had merged into welts; they looked stretched and painful. Her lips cracked and bled; her eyes were glassy with fever. Heat rose from her to press Briar’s face.

Flick struggled to smile. “Ain’t I a sight?” She stretched out her hand, palm-up; Briar stroked it with his free hand. They locked their fingers together, twisted them, and tugged free in a traditional street-rat’s greeting.

“You’re something, all right,” Briar admitted.

“I ain’t never seen nothing like this – like these spots. Did you?” she asked.

Briar shook his head. “Open your mouth?”

She obeyed. Briar peered in, but the light was too chancy. “Alleypup, hold the lamp close.”

The boy obeyed. Now Briar saw that Flick’s tongue was covered with a dense, pale coat. He could even see blue spots on the inside of her cheeks.

“Close up,” he told her. “Lemme see your back.” Obediently Flick turned onto her side. The spots were as thick on the back of her body as on the front. Asking permission and getting it, Briar lifted the band on her belly-wrap. The spots continued on the girl’s hips and bottom. “You can lay flat again,” he said when he was done. As Flick turned, he backed up until he was on level ground. There he sat on his heels, arms wrapped around his knees, to think.

For an apprentice maker of medicines, as Briar was now, his old life in Deadman’s District had been useful. There he’d seen all manner of sickness and injury. Now he ran through those he had witnessed close up. Smallpox and all the other poxes were old enemies, as was the black death. They looked nothing like what riddled Flick’s skin.

He looked at his friend. “How long’ve you been sick?”

She counted fingers, her lips moving. “Two days with spots. I wasn’t feeling right three days before.”

“Anybody else got it?” Briar asked.

Flick looked at Alleypup, who shook his head. “None as we know!” Flick said. She didn’t have to add, “Not yet.” All of them knew that most speckled diseases were catching.

Briar stood. “I don’t know what this is,” he told them. “I got to get Rosethorn down here.” When their eyes went wide, he shook his head. “She hasta see for herself.” He looked at Flick. “There’s a closer route in, ain’t there? If she came through the city, she could climb straight down to here?”

“You got to go to Urda’s House anyway to tell her,” Alleypup pointed out. “And they won’t let me bring her through town. We’ll get stopped at the gate.” He pointed to his clothes, streaked with fresh muck.

“I’m going no place,” Briar replied. “I got a quicker way to talk to Rosethorn than hiking back to the Mire.”

“She won’t come for no street rat,” said Flick tiredly. “Nobody cares if we live or die.”

“Shows what you know,” Briar retorted. “Where do I ask her to come?” Flick shook her head.

“Didn’t I nick cough syrup for you back in Wolf Moon, that fixed you up?” demanded Briar. “Didn’t I teach you how to throw a knife last time? I swear Rosethorn’s all right. I
swear.”

Alleypup stripped off his filthy shirt and breeches, tossing them into a corner. The clothes he yanked from an open crate were somewhat cleaner. “Tell her meet me at the Guildhall clock.” He pulled a worn tunic over his head.

Climbing the rags behind Flick, Briar pressed his hands to the raw earth at the rear of the cave. Even in the lamplight he could see roots hanging down. There were plants everywhere in the city. Digging his fingers into the rich dirt, he brushed a handful of rootlets, the beginnings of a vast underground web.

He and Rosethorn had thought of this over the winter. They could not speak mind-to-mind without touching, but they could talk through a web of plants. Closing his eyes, he found his magic, cool and firm with life. He passed it through his fingers, into the pale underground roots that had reached from the dirt to wrap around his hands.

His power split into a thousand small threads that flowed through grass and rose, ivy and moss, yew and cedar and ash roots. From one plant to another he sped, going in all directions except back. At the city wall he pulled himself together into a few dozen streams, plunging under the stone barrier to emerge in the tangle of weeds and poor men’s trees of the Mire. He scrambled forward, Rosethorn now a blaze ahead of him, towering in his magical sight like a giant tree.

Ivy grew on the sides of Urda’s House, framing the windows of the room where she worked. By the time he got there, she was opening the shutters.

This had better be good,
she told him mind-to-mind as she gently wrapped her fingers in his vine-self.
I’m in no mood for jokes.

He told her everything. When he was done, she untangled herself from the vine. He waited for her to reply, then realized she was gone, walking to the lower levels of the house. Just like her, not even to say she’s leaving, Briar thought. Letting go of the ivy, he raced back through roots again, falling into his own body. Only when he’d carefully freed himself of the roots in the wall did he try to speak to Flick and Alleypup. “Rosethorn. She’s on her way.”

“I’m off,” said the other boy. He picked up one of the lamps and left.

Coming out from behind Flick, Briar noticed the water bucket and ladle. “Have you washed at all?” he asked.

She looked at him, feverish eyes scornful. “You think they let me in the city baths?” she wanted to know. “Dippin’ my toesies with the draymen and the drunks? Did you think – ”

Briar held up a hand, and Flick caught her breath. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “I washed the first day of spots, before I got too tired. I’m weaker’n a kitten now.”

Briar nodded. “Do you boil your water?”

“Why?” she demanded. “We get water from the Potter’s Lane fountain. It’s good enough.”

“Even good water goes bad, ‘specially if dung and pee leak into it.” And I think maybe it is leaking in, Briar thought, but didn’t say. “Maybe your water that ain’t boiled is what got you sick.”

“I had spots before I washed,” Flick pointed out.

“So maybe you drank it.” Briar could speak with confidence about this. One of his teachers had spent an entire winter’s day talking about diseases in water. “You can’t tell water’s bad by looking.”

“Wood and kettles cost money,” growled Flick. “Don’t yatter at me, Briar. My head’s all swimmy.”

“Sorry.” Briar watched as she settled back, trying to get comfortable. Within minutes she was dozing.

He kept watch until he sensed Rosethorn’s approach. “You took
forever,”
he said when she and Alleypup walked into the cave. “I know turtles was quicker on the move.”

Rosethorn’s dark eyes took in the state of Briar’s clothes; the corners of her mouth turned down. “That will be enough from you, my lad,” she said. “This is our patient?” As she passed, she thrust her workbag into his hand.

Briar drew out a small, heavy pouch. Dumping its contents into one hand, he revealed a round crystal the size of his palm. Inside burned a steady, bright core of jagged light that put the smoking lamp to shame. He carried the light to a niche close to Flick and set it there. Its glare lit the street girl’s spots cruelly. Rosethorn knelt beside her without a thought for her earth-green habit.

“Just hold still,” she told Flick, her sharp voice gentle for once. “I try not to kill anyone who’s already sick if I can help it.”

Alleypup tugged on Briar’s sleeve and pointed to the crystal lamp. “How’d you do that? Make it light up?” His eyes were hungry as they rested on the light.

“My mate Tris done it,” said Briar, watching Rosethorn in case she needed anything. “She put lightning in a crystal ball.”

“Briar, I need my glass,” Rosethorn ordered. “And I want quiet, understood?”

“Yes, Lady,” replied Alleypup.

Briar grinned – Rosethorn was always convincing – and took a velvet pouch from the workbag. Carefully he slid out its contents: a round lens four inches across, its edges bound in a metal band, fixed to a metal handle. He passed it to his teacher.

Rosethorn examined Flick, talking softly to her the entire time. At last the dedicate sat back, frowning. “When did you get sick, and how did this illness develop?”

Flick answered weakly. At last Rosethorn stood, holding the lens out for Briar to take. As he did, he saw that drops of sweat had formed like pearls on Rosethorn’s pale skin. For all that she acted calm, she was upset, as upset as she’d ever been when facing pirates or forest fires.

For a moment she was silent. Finally she straightened her shoulders and back. “This will take arranging, I think. Briar, I need you to link me to Niko – I assume he’s at the duke’s with the girls. Getting Flick to Urda’s House will be tricky.”

When Flick opened her mouth to protest, Rosethorn glared at her, fisted hands on hips. “Something for you?” she asked ominously.

Flick shook her head and sank back on her rags. Briar grinned: he’d known Flick was smart.

“Has anyone else been here since you first got sick?” asked Rosethorn.

“Just me, and I been out and about,” said Alleypup. “Nickin” food and the like.”

“We’ll need to make a list of everyone you saw, then,” Rosethorn murmured, thinking aloud. “Briar? Have the girls link us with Niko, please.”

Briar closed his eyes as Rosethorn wrapped her hands around his. Unlike talking to Rosethorn at Urda’s House, speaking to any of the girls was easy. He only had to look for them in his own mind.

V
edris IV, ruling Duke of Emelan, put down his empty teacup and smiled at his favorite great-niece. Lady Sandrilene fa Toren smiled back, glad that her visit had pleased him. The duke had passed a long, hard winter trying to repair the damage of last summer’s earthquake, pirate attacks in the south, and a three-year drought in the north. Spring, with its promise of trade and new crops, was nearly come at last, and he could afford to relax with Sandry and her friends.

He didn’t look worn down in the least, Sandry noticed. His brown eyes bore dark circles from too little
sleep and the lines in his fleshy face were deeper, but his chin and jaw were still hard, his arched nose still proud. He dressed simply, but that was normal: her uncle was no fashion peacock. Vedris IV had no need to impress others with costly jewels and clothes. Instead he wore power and majesty like a cloak.

Sandry had changed from her riding clothes as soon as their group had reached Duke’s Citadel. Now she was elegant, but only because she knew her uncle liked to see her dressed suitably for her rank now and then. Her gray, sleeveless overgown was beautifully woven and trimmed with black silk braid; her white silk undergown had silver embroidery on the flowing sleeves. Her brown hair, sun-streaked most of the year, was neatly combed, braided, and pinned under a gray silk veil. The quiet elegance of her appearance was countered by her vivid blue eyes and by the firm set of her round chin.

“More tea, Uncle?” she asked, reaching for the pot. “Niko? Tris?”

The steel-haired man on the balcony that opened onto the study shook his head, as did the chubby redhead seated atop the ladder that touched the highest of the room’s bookshelves. The duke sighed and put down his cup. “I should see what Niko wants,” he remarked, his elegant voice just loud enough to reach Sandry’s ears. “I know it’s trouble just from looking at him, and I had hoped for just one week with no bad news.”

Sandry looked again at Niklaren Goldeye, the mage who had brought her, Briar, Tris, and their absent housemate, Daja, together. He was gazing at the city below. Niko’s heavy black eyebrows were knit together over a craggy nose; the tight set of his lined face showed he was deeply worried. He had been like that for days. After over a year’s friendship with him, Sandry knew the signs: he had read the future and seen dangerous events.