Instead he followed Triumph Road south, watching the stony heights on his left. They were the real Chammur, its twelve-hundred-year-old heart. So much age should have impressed Briar. Instead it made his skin creep. The city breathed exhaustion from its pores. The stone was tired; Rosethorn had said the land was tired. How long did tired places endure? On the day they had toured the city, just after their arrival, Rosethorn had commented that one good earthquake would finish the place. The Earth Dedicate who was their guide had gone dead white, and begged her not to repeat it.

Shaking his head, Briar nudged his horse into a trot. The sooner he returned to the Street of Hares, the better he would feel.

His ride up Palace Road to the amir’s citadel was long and expensive. Each time he was stopped by a guard Briar surrendered a silver cham — a coin equal to five silver davs — as a bribe, so he’d be allowed to pass. His purse was much reduced by the time he reached his destination and a servant guided him to Jebilu Stoneslicer’s waiting room.

Once the servant retreated, Briar looked his clothes over. He was the picture of a prosperous young man of the middle classes in a fresh cream-colored shirt and dark green baggy trousers. He’d worn his favorite overrobe again. He was glad he was dressed as well, if not better, than many nobles his age, because his surroundings breathed wealth and prestige. Stoneslicer’s marble walls were carved in lacy designs and inlaid with stone flowers; silk rugs in complex patterns warmed the cold marble floor. An assortment of braziers took the edge off the morning chill. Briar welcomed their warmth: autumn was settling around the city at last, and his silk overrobe wasn’t as warm as a coat.

He did note with displeasure the scent of sandalwood that rose from the braziers. Why burn a tree just to impress those who knew how costly the stuff was?

He knew the wealthy often burned sandalwood, to show their riches and power. He’d certainly encountered such customs often enough. It just seemed as if a mage ought to be more sensible and less wasteful.

Another servant arrived with a heavy brasswork tray. He set its contents — teapot, cups, a plate of pastries, and a bowl of fruit — on the low table. He filled the cups, then bowed out, walking backward. Briar scowled. He didn’t like that kind of bowing and scraping, and wondered why the servant had used it on a mere pahan. He had his answer as a carved sandalwood door at the back of the room opened. Jebilu Stoneslicer came in, motioning for the servant to close the front door behind him.

The stone mage was fat. He did not walk as much as he waddled in a billow of gold satin robes and musky scent. His skin was sallow, more yellow than brown. If he’d seen this man in an infirmary, Briar would have found medicines to treat ailments of the liver and kidneys.

Jebilu’s head looked like an egg atop his body, an egg with straggly long black hair glued to its back half. A hump on his long nose testified to a break long ago; his chin was a round bulge jutting from the bottom of the egg. His brown eyes, tucked in folds of fat, were quick and clever, his smile serene. If he had eyebrows Briar couldn’t see them. Dark circles spread under his eyes, another mark of poor health.

“Forgive me,” the older mage said in a high, boyish voice. “I was told a pahan was here to see me….”

“I’m the pahan,” Briar said, bowing to Jebilu. “Briar Moss, from Winding Circle temple in Emelan.”

Jebilu clasped his hands before him, regarding Briar silently for a moment. At last he said, “Moss is not a proper mage name, and you are but a boy.”

Briar listed varieties of wort plants in his head until his temper cooled. Evvy needs this bouncing ball, he told himself, and replied evenly, “I am fourteen. I picked the name ‘Moss’ for myself and see no reason to change it, and the Initiate Council of Winding Circle has vouched for me.”

He reached into his shirt and pulled a medallion over his neck. Keeping a grip on its silk cord, he held it out to Jebilu. The mage inspected it, touching it with a stubby finger to see the other side.

Briar and the girls had gotten the medallions nearly eighteen months before. All four of their teachers — Daja’s master Frostpine, Tris’s teacher Niko, Sandry’s teacher Lark, and Rosethorn — had come to supper one night, as had Tris’s and Briar’s sometime-teacher Dedicate Crane. Afterward Frostpine had presented each of the young people with a silvery metal circle. The front of each was different: the name of the individual student and his or her main teacher was inscribed on the outer edges. At the center was an image of their magic — Briar’s was a tree. On the back was the spiral symbol for Winding Circle, to indicate where they had studied.

The four were ordered never to show the pendants needlessly or even to wear them outside their clothes unless it were vital. These were mage-credentials, proof that the Initiate Council at Winding Circle had approved them to practice as adult mages.

For the most part they forgot they had them; the medallions seemed made not to be noticed by even the wearer. In the months since they had begun their journey east, Rosethorn had ordered Briar to show it to four mages, all of whom had argued about revealing how they worked to a student. The medallion had silenced them. Briar suspected they said more than just that the bearer was qualified as an adult mage, but Rosethorn refused to answer his questions.

Whatever the message of the medallion was, it did not impress Jebilu. He wrinkled his nose, as if he’d smelled something bad. “The standards for credentials are lower than they were when I was a student,” he remarked. “What have you done to your hands?”