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Ozorne flicked his eyes to the body slave, who filled a cup from the pitcher. Arram saw magic swirl faintly in the liquid as the woman knelt beside the princess and wrapped her hand around the cup. He frowned. No one was allowed to use magic so close to anything connected to the emperor. Ozorne lowered a flattened hand, their private signal for “later.”
“Arram is a mage of great talent, Mother,” he said gently as the princess sipped from the cup. “If he doesn’t set himself on fire trying to light a candle, he should do great things one day. He is not from conquered Siraj. Any ruler will be glad to have him or Varice at his court.”
The princess took a deep breath and let it out. Her thin body, so tense a moment before, relaxed. “Yes. Varice. You do so well with food, elixirs, and poisons, my dear,” she said. Her smile was more lifelike, her eyes dreamier. “I understand I have you to thank for this.” She waved her free hand toward the pitcher.
Arram stared at Varice. Neither she nor Ozorne had said she was working on an elixir for the princess, let alone one that would change the drinker’s mood.
Varice was blushing. “It was both of us, Ozorne and me,” she said.
“I watched,” Ozorne said. “Mother never would have accepted the gift otherwise. Varice did the rest.”
“It may well be that one day I shall offer you a post in my house,” the princess said. “If you cook as well as you fashion drinks to ease an old widow’s heart…”
All three of them protested against her claim to being old, which made her smile. “And I shall need no elixir to make me peaceful when I know my lord husband is avenged, shall I, my son?”
Ozorne whispered in his mother’s ear. Arram bent down to tell Varice softly, “We aren’t allowed to give medicines to people!”
Varice flicked her fan open and held it to shield her mouth as she replied, “Chioké said I could if he supervised. Are you jealous because I got to do something special?”
“No!” Arram said a little too loudly, enough to draw the attention of some nearby guests. “No,” he repeated softly. “But you never told me.” That hurt. Varice had done a magical thing for Ozorne’s mother, and neither she nor Ozorne had mentioned it, let alone invited him to the crafting of it.
Trumpets blared in the entry tunnel, announcing the approach of an heir to the imperial throne. The princess nodded to indicate Arram and Varice were dismissed. Ozorne’s wry smile told them that he had to remain with his mother for the time being.
“You could have said something,” Arram went on as they returned to their table. Preet sat beside a plate of grapes, glaring balefully at both humans for leaving her.
“I was scared it wouldn’t work,” Varice replied. “It was just before examinations. None of us could think of anything else. It’s only a little potion to relax her when she broods, that’s all. I started with a tea that healers give new mothers when they’re overwrought. It’s women’s magic. Nobody cares about women’s magic. My heavens, isn’t Stiloit handsome? I had forgotten!” She shook her head. “He probably doesn’t even remember dancing with me that time.” She glanced at Arram. “I think you told me he did just to make me feel good.”
The admiral was dismounting from a spirited horse. Once in view of the crowds, he stood for a moment, arms raised, as they shouted approval. Today he wore a purple robe and an elegant deep blue drape, but Arram couldn’t help but think he would be far more comfortable in a sailor’s canvas breeches and hardy shirt. He could see that Stiloit wasn’t as at ease here as he had been in the plague infirmary.
With a final slight bow to the people in the stands, the admiral turned and saw Princess Mahira. “My very dearest aunt! And my mage-cousin!” His voice had a carrying quality that Arram thought must be audible across the arena. It would be a very useful thing at sea…or for an emperor. Stiloit walked over to Mahira to kiss her hands, then her cheeks. He kissed Ozorne on each cheek as well.
Varice leaned close to Arram. “Doesn’t he know Ozorne dislikes to be touched unless he invites it?”
Remembering the admiral’s humorous eyes, Arram said, “I doubt His Highness cares.”
As the princess spoke to him, the admiral let his eyes roam until they halted on Varice. They brightened.
“He does remember you,” Arram murmured. Varice elbowed him discreetly.
Ozorne, noticing the prince’s inspection, waved Varice and Arram over.
“The young mistress Varice!” Stiloit said. He lifted Varice’s hand and kissed it, his lips lingering. Varice blushed. Arram and Ozorne both did their best to hide bristles. “My beautiful dancer! So delightful to see you again!”
“Lady Varice Kingsford, Arram Draper, and I are students at the Upper Academy of the School for Mages,” Ozorne told Stiloit smoothly. Varice curtsied. Arram bowed.
“But, cousin, I have met this young man, during the plague,” Stiloit said. He gave Arram a quick, strong embrace. “It is good to see you alive and well,” he remarked quietly, letting Arram step back. “Did they keep you much longer after we met?”
“Just three more days, Your Imperial Highness,” Arram replied, his cheeks hot. He wasn’t sure that he liked being touched by relative strangers any more than Ozorne did. “Actually, all three of us worked during the plague—Varice in medicines and Ozorne transporting them.”
“I saw my cousin Ozorne after I met you that day,” Stiloit replied. “He was not his usual well-dressed self! And if I had known the young lady was at work nearby, I would have paid my respects.” He caught up Varice’s hand and gave it a second kiss, then released it. “Perhaps I should recruit three such crafty folk to my navy!”
Varice laughed. “You would have to wait for Arram’s help on naval matters, Your Highness.” She placed a comforting hand on Arram’s arm. “His gifts are more in the way of healing and spell-work. Though he does walk on the bottoms of rivers.”
Her touch gave Arram courage. “Indeed, I am the worst possible mage for the exercise of war, Your Highness,” he said, trembling at his own boldness. “If I try to light even a small blaze, it goes anywhere but the target.”
Stiloit chuckled. “Rivers aren’t for the likes of me. Give me the sea and a strong wind any day.” He raised an eyebrow at Ozorne. “And you, Your Highness? Are you a student of disease and river bottoms?”
Arram bit the inside of his cheek to still his fury. The man might be a prince and an admiral, but he shouldn’t insult a fellow heir.
Ozorne’s answer to his cousin was drowned out by the thunder of drums that announced the emperor’s arrival. Everyone took their places.
As the emperor stepped up onto the first platform, everyone, even Stiloit, knelt. A rumble echoed through the arena as all those beyond did the same, from the vendors to the watchers on the upper heights.
Arram had seen Mesaraz Avevin Tasikhe before, but always from a distance. This was his first chance to observe their ruler closely. He sneaked a look at the master of the vastness that was the empire of Carthak.
Riding an elephant, armored and crowned in gold and—for those mage-born who could see it—glittering with spells for protection and for show, he was a creature out of myth. Afoot, he was a dumpy, pale-skinned Tasikhe of Ozorne’s height, raised by gilded black pearl-studded sandals with soles three inches thick. His crown—a cap of gold trimmed with silver and assorted gems—sat on thin white hair that had been combed straight back and cropped to the length of his earlobes. A black silk robe stitched with rubies and a scarlet drape bordered in gold did not distract a close viewer from the emperor’s chubby cheeks, his pudgy nose, and the pouches under his dull brown eyes. His mouth was petulant rather than masterful.
And yet, except for the great Sirajit War twenty-three years ago, he had kept the empire at peace for the years of his reign, or at least, Arram thought, peace as the empire defined it. After Ozorne’s father had crushed the Sirajit uprising, the armies spent their time breaking up tribal wars and noble feuds, subduing robbers and pirates who hunted without imperial
approval. This doughy-looking man had survived at least nine assassination attempts that Arram knew of, and restored the empire’s treasuries and granaries to a state of health unknown in the history of the five rulers before him.
Which just goes to show that looks aren’t everything, Arram decided. After all, Sebo, tiny and old as she was, was more respected than almost any other mage at the university, even Cosmas.
As drums pounded and trumpets blared in the arena, a slave selected different fruits and set them on plates, then added small cups of sauce. Varice giggled when she saw that Arram regarded the serving process with mistrust. “You dunk a bite of fruit in a cup, silly. It makes the taste more sophisticated.” She speared a grape on a thin-bladed knife and looked at the three small cups. “This is tamarind syrup, this one is cherry, and this, I am sure, is lime with…” She dipped her grape and tucked it into her mouth before the syrup could drip onto her dress. “Mmm, cinnamon,” she said with approval.
Because Varice was watching, he dipped a piece of fig into the tamarind sauce and smiled as the tastes filled his mouth.
“You should get to know different flavors, alone and mixed,” Varice told him soberly. “We can be brought low by a common poison if we don’t know when something wrong is added to our food and drink. Our Gifts won’t warn us unless, of course, you know your poisons.”
He listened to her as he watched the parade of gladiators walk the arena. He could hardly bear to see the elephants, horses, and big cats. He hated to think of the injuries that would come to them in the battles that would soon begin.
A sudden thought shocked him to the bone. I could leave Carthak when I’m a master. I’d never have to think about the games again.
He fed Preet to hide his confusion from Varice. A young noble had come to speak to her, drawing her eyes away from Arram. More thoughts crowded in. Leave Varice? He looked over to see Ozorne fanning his mother. Leave Ozorne? After promising we would stay together? I can’t! They’re my real family!
Preet, as always, sensed his distress and began to babble softly. He smiled down at her, thinking how lucky he was to have her company. He was getting carried away. When we’re all in one household, Ozorne won’t press me to attend the games. And how can I abandon Lindhall, or Sebo, or Cosmas? Let alone Carthak, when I’ve hardly seen any of it.
He was letting his imagination run away with him. Carefully he reached for his bag, stowed under the table, and opened it. A book, that’s what I need right now. And my…
He groped wildly, first in one pocket, then two more. Where were his earplugs? Did he forget them?
The first game was announced, a battle between wildcats and warriors on horseback. Varice said farewell to her guest and leaned over to Arram. She reached out one arm, her hand in a fist. “Take these,” she said in Old Thak. “Be discreet. It’s considered rude.”
She lowered her hand so the table hid it. Arram slid his palm under her fist. She dropped two wax earplugs into his hand.
She had also brought a deck of cards. “Here, play with me,” she directed. Arram left one ear unplugged so he could hear her as they played. When she lost the first game, she sighed and said, “My luck has to improve, doesn’t it? Will you wager?”
Arram smiled as Preet scolded Varice. He waited for the bird to fall silent before he said, “You won’t catch me that way. Ozorne tells me what a fine gambler you are.”
Varice pouted. “Still, another game?”
Arram nodded and rose to stretch. Seeing that the first combat was over and slaves were out clearing the sands, he removed his other earplug and walked down to the rail. Directly opposite the emperor’s place, on the far side of the arena, was a great statue of Mithros, covered in gold. In this guise the god wore only the kilt and belt of the gladiator. He brandished the short sword and round shield that were the first implements gladiators learned to use. Over the imperial seats, on top of the roof, was a statue of Carthak’s patroness, the Graveyard Hag, with a dice cup in one bony hand. She wore a black robe and hood that hid her features. The Great Mother Goddess was nowhere to be seen in this temple of killing and death, Arram observed.
“I see you smuggled your bird in.” Master Chioké had joined him. “Does Her Highness mind?”
“I left Preet at our table when we greeted Her Highness, Master,” Arram replied politely. “But I’m not so disrespectful as to smuggle Preet. His Imperial Majesty asked to see her today.” The rumor that Chioké might be a good choice as head of the School for Mages, should Master Cosmas retire, was persistent these days. Arram hoped he would be gone by then. Not only did he love Cosmas, but Chioké seemed too interested in the world outside the university. Ever since he had become one of Chioké’s students, Ozorne spent a great deal of time thinking about the world as well. More personally, Arram had not forgiven Chioké for the day he had pushed Arram to throw fire until the lightning snakes came. He had nothing against the lightning snakes, other than that they were as unnerving as Enzi, but he hated to be pressed.
The master looked at the gates opening across the arena. “Ah. The next bout. We should return to our seats.” Yet he remained, looking at Arram. “Ozorne and Varice are very lucky to have such a talented—and closemouthed—friend.”
“I’m shy,” Arram replied, thinking, If he oozes much more he will be able to skid back to his place.
“Yes. I know. But not invincible or infallible. Just a lad yet.”
Arram bowed before he glared at the man. “Excuse me, Master Chioké. Varice is waving.” He waved at Varice, so she would do the same when the older mage looked. Quickly he trotted back to her and plopped into his chair. The slaves were setting out more substantial dishes that Varice had brought.
“What did Master Ambition want?” Varice asked after the slaves moved away.
Arram turned his chair so his back was to the arena and tore up bits of bread for Preet. “I have no idea and I don’t care. ‘Master Ambition’ is the perfect name.” He saw her eyes brighten at the action on the ground and said, “Go ahead and watch. I can read.”
She got to her feet. “Arram, look—isn’t that your friend Musenda? It looks like he has a single fight! He’s moving up!” She picked up her skirts and ran down to the rail. The lords and ladies there made room for her without looking away from the men and women who had marched onto the sands.
Arram stood, feeling sick. An arena guard pointed a spear with a bright red flag at the tip at a gladiator in the front of the small group on the sands. It was indeed Musenda. He would fight—and perhaps die—in full view of his sister-in-law and the children.
The Grand Crier, who announced all the events through a horn from the imperial stand at the emperor’s feet, shouted, “Of the first single match, from the bold warriors of the third rank—”
He was interrupted by a trumpet blast. The gate at the gladiators’ end of the arena opened, and a leather-armored man rode out on a beautifully steel-armored horse. He galloped up to the imperial pavilion.
“That’s Valor.” Yadeen had come to stand next to Arram. “The great killer—or should I say champion?—of the games.”
“Valor does not wait!” the big man shouted up to the crier. “Valor chooses his foes! Valor does not sit like a girl who waits for a lover! Valor will battle now!”
The crier looked up at the imperial dais. There was a long, terrible pause: Arram couldn’t see the emperor or Stiloit.
“ ‘Does not wait,’ my rock hammer,” Yadeen remarked scornfully, causing Arram to choke on the water he was drinking. “He chooses a younger, less experienced gladiator from the third rank. He’ll draw out the fight, make it look good, and then afterward, he will say he took some small injury that prevents his taking on anyone else. His hopeful opponents of the first and second ranks are the ones who must wait.” He looked at Arram, who was trembling. “The third-ranker—Musenda Ogunsanwo. That’s your friend, isn’t it?”
Arram nodded. The Grand Crier bellowed, “Valor has his wish! He will fight M
usenda Ogunsanwo of the third rank!”
Yadeen placed a gentle hand on Arram’s shoulder. “Pray. If there are any particular gods with whom you have a bond, now would be a good time to call on them.”
That was Enzi, but Arram didn’t think the crocodile god could have any influence on the games. He was about to silently address Mithros, until he remembered Preet. If the god was not here today, it would be disastrous to bring his attention to the sunbird fledgling napping on his shoulder.
He pleaded with Hekaja to keep his friend uninjured or mendably injured—gods asked horrible prices of those who prayed for the impossible. After he watched Valor dismount and trade his costly armor for the plain greaves and breastplate of a third-rank gladiator, Arram looked up.
He could have sworn the statue of the Graveyard Hag had been staring directly across the arena, at her sister goddess Hekaja. Now she was looking down at the imperial pavilion. No, she was turning her head to look directly at him.
She winked.
A noise of alarm struggled to escape his throat. He closed his eyes, hoping he dreamed. When he opened them again, the statue was in its normal position.
Arram tried to relax and reached for the glass he had placed on his table. Instead his hand landed on something far smaller, with angles. He picked it up and looked at it. It was a clear crystal dice cube with numbers picked out in tiny spots of garnet. He prayed it was garnet and not his first morbid guess, that it was blood.
Yadeen was speaking to him. “If you wish to turn around, I can sit here so no one in the imperial seats will be able to see you.”
Arram smiled weakly at his teacher. “I owe it to Musenda to watch.” He clutched the Hag’s die in his hand. Preet hopped to his shoulder and hummed softly in his ear.
The fighters moved to the center of the arena, and the Grand Crier bellowed, “In the name of Mithros and the emperor, do battle!”
