“Look alive, boy,” she advised him crisply, coming to stand next to the bed of the wagon. “Those medicines won’t do any good if they’re wet.”
“They ain’t wet,” he argued. “I wrapped ’em good.” He handed one covered bushel basket out to her and another to the wagon’s driver, who had come to help.
“Every time we bring you down here, all we’ve drummed into that thick skull on proper speech just gets buried in the mud,” Rosethorn commented, shaking her head. “Stay up there—we’ll do the carrying.” She followed the driver up the steps to the wide porch and into the hospital.
It took three trips for the two adults to carry everything inside. Once that was done, Rosethorn took a final basket from the cart and thanked the driver. Briar hopped out. With a nod to the dedicate, the driver climbed onto his seat and drove away.
Rosethorn looked at Briar. “You’re off to see that friend of yours?”
“If I can find her,” replied Briar. “I didn’t see her waiting.”
Rosethorn pointed to a tower crowned by an immense clock, visible over the wall that kept city and Mire separate. “Meet me at the Guildhall at three o’clock,” she told him firmly. “If you aren’t there—”
“You’ll hang me in the well,” Briar said with a grin; it was a much-repeated threat.
“And don’t stand here getting wet,” she ordered. Shaking her head, Rosethorn walked into Urda’s House. Briar crossed the street, inspecting the street rats as they shivered in the icy wind. Two walked away, flicking their fingers at him in a casual wave. The third nodded.
Briar squinted. “Flick never told me your name.”
“Alleypup.” The other boy—smaller, dark-skinned and dark-eyed, dressed in tatters—shifted from foot to foot. He wore no shoes, only muddy rags wrapped around his feet. “Flick said I was t’ bring ya.”
“Bring me where?” Briar asked suspiciously.
“To her den, down below. She don’t look so good.”
“Don’t look so good how?” Briar felt his own arms as if he warmed them. In truth he was checking that the hideout knives strapped to his wrists were in place, hilts set so he could free them quickly. There were other blades in sheaths all over his body, but the wrist knives were the quickest to reach.
Alleypup sighed. “She’s got spots. You know, like she’s sick. And she’s got no coin for Urda. She asked, would you come have a look.”
“Me?” Briar demanded, shocked. “I grow things—I’m no healer!”
“Flick told me, you seen sick folk before. You help Dedicate Rosethorn do up medicines and things. ’Course, if it’s too much trouble—” Alleypup turned away.
Briar grabbed the street rat and glared at him. “I never said I wouldn’t. I was just surprised, is all. Where’s Flick?”
Alleypup led Briar into an open cellar and under some lumber that leaned against its stones. Here was an open tunnel underground. A few steps inside brought them to a niche in the wall. The street rats had put oil lamps there.
“I don’t s’pose you’d light these up?” asked Alleypup. “You bein’ a mage and all.”
“You want my mate Tris for that,” Briar informed the other boy. In the language of the streets, a mate was the closest of friends. “Or Daja, that’s back at Winding Circle. I can’t do fire.”
“Hmph,” snorted Alleypup. “That’s no help.” He fumbled in his pocket and produced flint and steel to light the wick.
Briar’s thin-bladed nose twitched as the reek of hot animal fat filled the air. He’d forgotten that scent—at home in the temple city of Winding Circle they used oil treated with herbs. The dog work of filling jars with oil and chopping herbs into them was his least favorite chore, but now it seemed the chore was worth some trouble.
And ain’t I getting nice over such things in my elderliness! he thought as he followed Alleypup down the tunnel.
They crawled for about sixty yards. Splashing through a trickle of wet, Briar wondered how Rosethorn would react when he returned with mucky clothes. She was all too likely to dump him into a horse trough and keep him there until he was clean. Rosethorn liked dung as much as any gardener or plant, but she had strong feelings about it when it was on Briar. He was all too aware that this sense of being dirty marked another change in his life since he’d left the Hajran slums. Was he ever himself anymore?
His sense of direction told him they were headed west, under the wall that guarded Summersea proper. The network of clay pipes here sported cracks and leaks, the most recent damage from last summer’s earthquake.
“Flick says you was street,” his guide remarked, stopping for a quick rest.
“In Deadman’s District in Hajra, in Sotat,” Briar replied. “They called me Roach. I did purse and pocket work and burgled some.”
Alleypup whistled softly. Thieves were important people—they had money once they’d managed to feed themselves. “How old were you?”
“Four.” Briar stepped around what looked like a long-dead dog. “The Thief-Lord took me in after a while and gave me my name.”
“The streets from four—that’s harsh,” Alleypup said, and coughed. Leaning away from Briar, he spat into the deeper running water of the city sewers. “My mum and dad only loped off two winters back. Said I was too hard to raise.”