The Will of the Empress - By Tamora Pierce Page 0,30
"Did you see the way that footman looked down his nose at us? We're not at all fashionable here, and appearances matter more. I don't want these popinjays sneering at us."
"Well, things may be different, but we're the same," retorted Briar, preening in front of a mirror set there for just that purpose. "We're still mages, and the only folk that should concern us are mages."
Daja had to admit, he looked quite trim in his pale green tunic and trousers. Even the moving flower and vine tattoos on his hands seemed to want to match his clothes. Their leaves were the pale green of spring, the tiny blossoms white and yellow and pink, with only the occasional blue rose or black creeper. Still, he needed to remember that not everyone would agree with him. In Trader-talk she told Briar, "Don't talk nonsense. These people matter to Sandry, so they should matter to you."
Briar glared at her. When Daja returned his gaze with her own calm one, he rolled his eyes and shook his head. "They're only mattering to me for the summer, and then I'll have nothing more to do with them," he replied, also in Trader-talk. "I've had my fill of nobles."
"Unless they want to buy something from you," murmured Tris in Trader-talk.
Briar grinned like a wolf, showing all his teeth. "Unless they want to buy," he said amiably. "Then they're my new, temporary best friends."
The gilded doors to the Hall of Roses swept open, propelled by the footman who had guided them to the waiting room. He bowed low to Sandry, and indicated they could enter the room beyond.
Sandry gave him her brightest smile and swept by him, a confection of airy pink and white clothes and silver embroidery. Briar followed Sandry. Tris, respectable in a sleeveless peacock blue gown over a white undergown with full sleeves and tight cuffs, pressed a coin into the footman's hand as she passed him, accepting his murmured blessing with a nod. She had spent long hours on the road with Daja discussing the proper amounts for tips in Namorn. Daja, dressed in leader-style in a coppery brown tunic and leggings, carrying her staff, accompanied Tris into the larger hall.
"Clehame Sandrilene fa Toren," announced a herald. "Viynain Briar Moss. Viymeses Daja Kisubo and Trisana Chandler."
Daja, Briar, and Tris exchanged a quick grimace. Someone at court had decided to ignore the plainer titles of Ravvotki and Ravvikki they had used when they first met the empress and openly address them as mages. Reluctantly Daja reached inside her tunic and fished out the snake-like living metal string on which she kept her mage's medallion. Briar took out his, dangling from a green silk cord, and Tris hers, hung on black silk. Quickly, as they approached the empress, they arranged the medallions properly on their chests. Daja knew that Sandry wouldn't bother. Sandry understood that showing her medallion would not change how anyone saw her.
Producing their medallions had an instant effect on Sandry's companions, however. Daja felt her back straighten. She saw it happen with Briar and Tris, too. We are eighteen, after all. We're allowed to wear the medallions in public, Daja realized. And maybe having them in the open is actuaIly ... helpful. We're not Sandry's lowborn foster family, or that's not the most important thing about us. We are accredited mages from Winding Circle, which doesn't grant the medallion to just anybody. We have reputations. We are people to be reckoned with.
As they walked toward Berenene, Daja saw that the sight of medallions on the chests of Sandry's companions also had an effect on some of the other mages who were present. They were obviously not happy to see young people wearing that credential. Even Quenaill, the great mage who stood close to the empress, smiled crookedly as he bowed in greeting.
We earned it fairly and properly, thought Daja with a smile that gave away nothing of what went on behind her eyes. And if you don't play nicely with us, we'll even show you how.
To make herself forget jealous mages, she surveyed the room as if she would have to describe it in an exercise for one of her former teachers. Roses figured on wall hangings, damask chair cushions, and on the silk drapes framing long glass windows that also served as doors to the outside. Large Yanjing enamelled vases filled with fresh-cut blossoms stood everywhere, so the room was filled with their scent. Like exotic flowers themselves the elegant courtiers