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“I have two classes with him, O Student Behind the Times,” Ozorne informed him smugly. “Chioké convinced Master Cosmas that it would be suitable for me to study detection of poisons.”
Arram blinked at his friend. At the Tasikhe court a person’s exposure to poisons—whether studying them or their cures—was always watched very carefully. Any student of that area had to be approved by the emperor’s personal mage as well as by Master Cosmas.
“Your uncle must trust you,” he said at last, wondering why this was the first he’d heard of it.
Ozorne shrugged. “He trusts my mother and Master Chioké,” he said. “He thinks I’ll be useful to Mikrom when he ascends to the throne. And I believe his eye is on Chioké as well. The present court mage is starting to dodder a bit.” He laughed. So did the others at the table, except Arram. He couldn’t see anything funny about the aging of a great man who had served the emperor for decades.
“Come, soursop.” Ozorne poked Arram’s shoulder. “You’ve been among the dirty and downtrodden too long. Chin up! You’re home!”
Slowly Arram smiled. Ozorne’s sense of humor could take a cruel turn, it was true, but he meant no harm. And it was good to be back, among pretty girls, eating warm meals, and bathing in hot water. Best of all, he had four days before he had to haul himself out of bed at dawn, ready for school. Who knew? He might even be able to produce some magic by then.
The day Arram returned to classes, he requested permission from Master Cosmas to go back to the typhoid workrooms. Cosmas firmly refused to let him do so much as chop wood for the fires. Preet agreed loudly.
“Hush,” the master told the bird. She quieted slowly. “There will be other plagues, as I told Varice and Ozorne,” he informed Arram.
Arram grimaced. “If that is the way to improve my education, I’d as soon not have any more plagues.”
Cosmas chuckled. “Our care effort at such times is large, and it was time to try the three of you out in the field,” he explained. “Everyone is impressed with all of you. Cheer up. We will not allow you to burn yourselves out. You are to rest and study. Let your Gift rebuild.”
—
The next day Ozorne found Arram by the river. He was knee-deep in the water, feeding fishes near the landing for the palace. The hippos who had also come to visit scrambled into the water when they saw the prince and his escort or, more likely, smelled them.
Arram had been wondering about the imperial barge that waited at the land’s end. He climbed from the water and approached his friend. “Where are you off to?”
“Mother is unwell,” Ozorne replied with a frown. “Keep notes for the classes I’m in, will you?”
Arram would have agreed, but the imperial soldier in charge of Ozorne’s entourage ushered the prince along to the waiting craft. Slaves hurried to send it speeding eastward as soon as Ozorne was seated.
Preet uttered a questioning trill.
“I agree,” Arram replied absently. “If she keeps calling him away, he’ll begin to fall behind.”
—
Ozorne rejoined his friends at the dining hall after a three-day absence. Preet was the first to see him. She screeched and flew to him at the food tables, where she perched on his shoulder.
When they reached the table, Preet was grooming his hair and dislodging his beaded braids. “Preet, three whole days is not an eternity!” Ozorne cried, laughing. “Yes, I missed you, too!” He glanced at Arram. “Arram, save me from your bird—she’s ruining my hair. You’d think I’d vanished from the earth!”
Tristan sighed impatiently. “So is anything exciting going on at the palace, Your Highness?”
Ozorne sat while Varice poured tea for him.
“Next week the emperor holds games to honor my cousin Stiloit when he takes the fleet out to sea. Mother was to make the arrangements, but she hasn’t been well. She asked me to help—and she had conditions. Arram and Varice—and Preet, His Imperial Majesty wants to meet her—are to be the family’s guests on the imperial stand. I couldn’t get seats there for more of my friends,” he said apologetically to Tristan and Gissa, “or the great nobles who already fill up the seats will have fits. I did secure tickets for the two of you in the section for the second-ranking nobles.” With an artistic wave of his arm, he produced two gilded papers for Tristan and Gissa, setting them down before Tristan. For a moment the older student looked chagrined, but the expression vanished.
“He’s learned it isn’t wise to let royalty know you’re disappointed,” Varice murmured into Arram’s ear.
Ozorne swallowed a mouthful of greens. “Mother is sending a carriage to bring the four of you to the games. I have to go to her at the palace again after Friday classes, but at least I know my friends will be looked after.” He glanced at each of them. “Now have I earned your company? And the rest of my dinner? I’m starving.”
Tristan, Gissa, and Varice had arrived just before Ozorne. They rose to give him their most joking bows, then went to get their meals.
“Stop frowning,” Ozorne told Arram as they dove into their beef tajine.
“Not games,” Arram whispered. “I hate them.”
Ozorne sighed. “You can’t insult Mother, remember? Varice and I will distract you. You’ll hardly know what’s going on. And I left proper clothing in your room. You must dress well since we’re on the imperial stand.” Arram gulped. Ozorne gripped his shoulder. “It’s a compliment, featherhead!”
“You should have told me weeks ago,” Arram grumbled.
“Don’t worry,” Ozorne said. “We found a spot where you won’t see too much blood.”
—
All week Arram slept badly, dreaming of the female gladiator bleeding into the sands. Friday night the dream changed. Musenda was surrounded by typhoid patients in gladiator gear. All the big man had for defense was the long rake used to shove bodies deeper into the fires. Musenda fought his attackers off frantically, but there were hundreds of them. His rake shattered. He fell to his knees, still trying to hold them back with the staff.
Arram sat up in bed, sweating. Preet was chattering softly in his ear.
Ozorne and Varice would notice if he hid somewhere—like the privies—to avoid the action on the sands. He would spell a couple of books so no one would see them and he could read all he wished.
No, he couldn’t. No one was allowed to use magic in the emperor’s presence. “I’ll take small books,” he said, padding into the study to light a candle. He brought it into his room and used it to light the others. The sky was still dark. He scrubbed his face and combed his curls. “And shift my seat so my view is blocked,” he murmured, thinking aloud. Preet twittered in approval.
Ozorne had brought an expensive cotton robe of a green shade that would make his skin look bruised. No doubt the color was fashionable. Ozorne would never deliberately pick something because it made his friend look ugly or ill.
As he slid into it, Preet chirred a question.
“Yes, you’re coming,” he told her softly. “The emperor himself wants to meet you. If the killing upsets you, let me know. I’ll put you in my carrybag.” He wished he could fit in the carrybag.
A soft knock sounded on his door. “Arram Draper?”
It was a slave clad only in a waistcloth. He wore a collar with the symbol of House Tasikhe. The man bowed and said, “We’ve your carriage and Mistress Varice waiting.”
Varice stood beside the carriage. She took his breath away, she was so lovely. Her Northern-style gown of bright yellow silk clung until it reached the chain belt at her hips, where the skirt flared; a white gossamer undergown showed above the low silk neckline. Her hair was braided and pinned with bronze beads that matched those in her pearl-and-bronze belt.
Varice stroked Preet’s head. “I see Tristan and Gissa.” She stood on her tiptoes and waved as the slave stowed Arram’s bag tidily on top of the carriage. Preet chuckled to herself, including tiny hissing noises. Arram smiled. Preet always hissed when she saw Tristan. Arram
thought the sound was her name for him.
Within a few moments they were all four comfortably disposed inside, Arram and Varice on either side of a good-sized covered basket, Gissa and Tristan riding on the backward-facing seat. Varice produced four cups and a flat-bottomed teapot from her basket. As soon as the carriage rolled forward, she began to pour. She did not spill a drop.
Tristan rubbed his hands, grinning with eagerness. “I have to create a proper thank-you gift for Prince Ozorne,” he said. “I’ve wanted to see the imperial arena since I was a pup! Varice, if you have ideas…” He nudged Arram with his foot. “Come on, Stork Boy, aren’t you excited?” He took the cup Varice offered him.
Arram glared at Tristan and accepted his own cup from Varice. He didn’t like Tristan’s nicknames for him. Lately he constantly made jokes at Arram’s expense—“all in fun,” he often said.
“I probably have a friend in the games today, if it’s the same to you.” Arram gulped back the contents of his cup.
“Which gladiator, Arram?” Gissa asked. “We can leave offerings to the gods for him.”
Arram smiled at her. Gissa was all right. “Musenda,” he replied. “He’s a third-ranker. They’ll probably just keep him for the mass fights.” He told them how the big man had saved him when he was ten.
“I know his name,” Varice said. “He’s ascending. The gamblers think he may even beat Valor one day.”
“Valor?” Arram asked.
“Big Scanran,” Tristan replied. “Muscles like boulders. Truly frightening.”
“Stop it,” Varice ordered. “Musenda’s a third-order fighter. Valor only goes against first and second orders. He’s the imperial champion, the hero of the arena.”
“Those people are animals,” Tristan said disdainfully. “They live to fight and kill. It’s all that they’re good for, you’ll see.”
Arram stroked Preet, who sang softly. Eventually the carriage shifted. Varice gasped and nearly spilled her tea. “We’re turning! Put back your curtain!”
They all did as ordered. They had reached the Avenue of Heroes. Ancient trees on both sides offered shade and rest to weary walkers. Between them towered statues of Carthak’s greatest generals and warriors. Crowds on foot lined the roads: these people had left the city before dawn to reach the arena.
Arram had a foggy recollection of it all. Much of it was centered on his memory of the elephant, and the blood, and his vomiting, or the huge, torchlit walls and the insides of stone. Now he would be on top of the rocks he had helped to mend, and far above the elephants and the fighters.
Tristan nudged him with his boot. “Why the glum face?” he demanded. “We have a beautiful day, beautiful company—” He smiled at Gissa, but his eyes flicked to Varice. “And excitement ahead! Look!” He pointed out the window on his side. There rose the white stone oval of the Great Arena.
Arram’s belly clenched.
Soon enough the roar of those already inside the huge structure swamped them. Arram tucked Preet into a pouch in the drape that fit his arm.
As imperial guests, they drove through both outer gates without stopping, and into the tunnel that led to the imperial section. The clatter of hooves and wheels made all of them grimace. Despite the noise, Arram hung half out the window. He could feel the marble: the mixture of his magic and Yadeen’s, too powerful to have faded completely. He could even feel Chioké’s power near the tunnel’s entrance to the arena.
Once they halted, their coachman and the slave who had carried their things opened the doors and helped them to step down. The two young women wished each other a wonderful time, while Tristan patted Arram’s cheek.
“Try to uphold the honor of the university,” he said with his most engaging smile. He offered Gissa his arm and led her toward the nobles’ seating, their tickets in his hand.
Imperial slaves in crimson waistcloths and gilded sandals took Varice’s basket and Arram’s bag. Arram would have tipped the cart’s driver, but one of the slaves saw his motion and shook his head.
“It is the pleasure of Princess Mahira to see to the comfort of the slaves,” he murmured to Arram.
“Her Highness is so kind to mere students,” Varice said, linking her arm with Arram’s.
On the left side of the tunnel wall, hanging over it as it sloped down toward the top of the arena itself, dozens of people sat or leaned, watching each new arrival and cheering the ones they knew. They threw flowers or shouted jests and jeers to everyone who passed under their review. Varice inspired a cacophony of appreciative whistles and pleas for a smile from the pretty lady. Arram was teased for his height and his silly bird, drawing returning insults from Preet. She produced gales of laughter when she gave them her unmistakable imitation of a series of farts.
Arram shielded his eyes, ashamed and smiling at the same time. Then he heard someone yell his name. He looked up and saw three familiar faces. Binta and her two brothers, Musenda’s niece and nephews, waving frantically to him. He waved back and shouted a greeting.
Their guide was glaring at him. “We must clear the way, sir. The emperor will arrive soon. We cannot block his advance.”
Arram looked up at the children, pointed to the servant and Varice, and shrugged. The children shouted farewells as their mother pulled them back. She and Arram traded waves before she walked out of view, and he half trotted to catch up with his guide and Varice.
“Who were those people?” Varice asked. She was already wielding a fan Ozorne had given her for Midwinter. The day was promising to be unusually warm for April.
“Musenda’s family,” Arram explained. “Remember I told you they were at the plague house? I juggled for the children.”
“I do remember. Too bad he wasn’t there to greet you with them.” Varice sighed. “From the times I’ve seen him, he’s gorgeous—so powerful!”
“And kind,” Arram said, not liking that she knew his friend only in terms of the arena sands. “He didn’t have to save my life when I was ten, or care for his brother’s family.”
Varice looked at him as they emerged into the sunlight. “Arram,” she said quietly, “my dear, it’s not good to care for a gladiator.”
“Why do you think I hate the games?” he asked, his voice soft.
Inside the stone oval of the main arena, seats were arranged in four great tiers, with the most expensive at the lowest level.
Arram and Varice followed their guide up a stair onto the imperial stand, three broad, shallow platforms isolated from the rest of the audience by a crimson silk cover high overhead. Many nobles and their servants had already arrived, including Ozorne.
He approached with outstretched hands and a broad smile. “Mithros be thanked, you’re here,” he greeted them. He kissed Varice, once for each cheek, and clasped one of Arram’s shoulders, unusual signs of favor. Of the three of them Ozorne was the least given to displays of affection. He gave the slave who carried their things a hand signal, and tucked one of Varice’s hands under his arm. “Arram, will Preet go with the slave?” he asked. “Just until you’ve greeted Mother? She is not interested in birds, not like His Imperial Majesty.” He indicated a female slave wearing the insignia of House Tasikhe.
“Behave and let this woman carry you to our place,” Arram told Preet softly. To the slave he said, “She won’t peck or bite.”
She reached out a strong arm. Gently Arram held his wrist so the bird could walk over. “Her name is Preet,” he said.
The slave bowed and followed the other slave across the second platform. Ozorne gave an imperious tug to Arram’s drape to straighten it. “Come along,” he demanded. As they stepped down to the first platform, he said quietly, “Mother is having a bad day. I want everything to go smoothly.”
“Why didn’t she just stay home?” Varice asked.
Ozorne grimaced. “Not when Cousin Stiloit is taking the Western Navy out for the summer. It’s a great honor for him, the emperor presenting games in his honor. It shows he approves of Stiloit as the official h
eir after Mikrom—Mikrom must have done something to make His Imperial Majesty angry. So it’s a very touchy imperial thing, and Mother and I must attend.”
“You never had to go to games before,” Arram murmured. He could feel the hum of fresh magic: Yadeen’s again, and more powerfully, that of Chioké. He glanced around and saw the two masters seated to one side of the imperial throne. Startled, he realized he felt the masters’ personal Gifts, power that was as much part of them as their muscles and bones. They were not using it; the power was simply there. Can they sense me like this, or Varice? he wondered.
“I was never third in line for the festering throne before,” Ozorne was whispering, “and Stiloit wasn’t second in line. Apparently he said unprincely things when Uncle ordered him to attend these games. You see why he spends so much time at sea, don’t you? He’d rather bathe in tar than live a day here.”
They had reached the princess’s station, a short step down from the dais. Mahira sat at a table decked with flowers, food, and a gold pitcher glistening with drops of water. A woman Arram recognized as the princess’s personal slave stood at her elbow.
Ozorne leaned down and kissed his mother’s cheek. She had been staring out over the arena sands, her amber eyes distant. “Mother, do you remember my friends? Varice Kingsford”—Varice curtsied—“and Arram Draper.”
Arram bowed and clutched his drape as it slithered off his shoulder. Straightening, he met the princess’s flat stare. It was plain that she did not exactly remember him.
“He has the touch of the Sirajit about him,” the princess murmured, her voice icy.
“Mother, that’s not true!” Ozorne protested.
“I was born in Tyra, Your Highness,” Arram reminded her. “My family has lived in Tyra for five generations.”
“A Tyran will lie down with anyone,” she replied. “As will a Sirajit swine. Their breed wallows everywhere, and goes on breeding.”
Why are people always nasty about pigs? Arram wondered, ignoring her accusation, even distant, about his family’s sexual habits. He had learned to ignore insults about his family. It was the first subject people chose when they wished to upset him. Since they could not know his family, it meant nothing.
