The distance made it easier for a short time. The two men looked like miniatures, not human beings. Valor was shorter than Musenda, but he was built like a bull, with arms, chest, and legs thicker even than his foes. They used small, round shields and short swords, meant—Arram assumed—to bring them closer and draw blood quickly.
Twice Musenda caught Valor’s shield edge on the guard of his blade. He used the brief catch to knock Valor’s sword from his hand and bash Valor’s face before the older man threw himself backward, freeing his shield, grabbing his weapon, and rolling to his feet at a slight distance from Musenda. The third time Musenda tried the shield catch, Valor threw arena dust he had seized when he fell into the younger gladiator’s face. Blinded, Musenda raised his arms to clear his vision; Valor stabbed him in a long shallow cut along the ribs. Arram turned his head away, his lips trembling, then made himself look. His friend was out there. If he could give Musenda some of his power, he would. He wished he could give him some of his will.
On the fight went. Valor knocked Musenda’s shield out of his grip and yards away. After an attempt or two to retrieve it, Musenda didn’t try again. He lunged and dodged, moving fast and keeping Valor moving. It began to cost the champion after a time; even Arram could see it. Still, he made Musenda pay, a cut here and a cut there. Arram wished it would end and prayed it would not.
Musenda tumbled and fell on his back. Arram leaped to his feet, clutching his Gift to him tighter than he ever had in his life, fighting to keep it under control when all of him wanted to pick Valor up and dump him out of the arena. Preet hung on to his ear with her beak, but the pain did not register. Yadeen’s grip on his arm helped a little as Valor charged Musenda, both hands gripping his sword’s hilt, the weapon raised above his head, ready to stab down. It was done; Arram knew it was done.
At the very last moment Valor was almost on top of Musenda when the younger gladiator twisted, slashing backhand down and across Valor’s bulging, powerful thigh. The champion shrieked in agony and went down, face-first. He rolled onto his back, still screaming, as Musenda took the sword from his grip and stood.
The crowd went mad. They had gone from shrieking their adoration of the champion to demanding that Musenda kill him.
Musenda shook his head and held the sword so that it pointed downward.
Trembling, Arram looked at Yadeen. “Does that mean something?” he croaked. He must have been shouting for his friend if his voice was so hoarse.
Yadeen was on his feet, too. “It means he wants to let Valor live.”
Arram looked at Musenda’s many cuts. “Could you do that?”
The mage shrugged. “It’s different out there, on the sands.”
The emperor stepped down to the platform next to the Grand Crier, and the crowd went silent. He beckoned Stiloit forward and held his hand out to his second heir.
“He gives the prince the honor of the choice,” Yadeen explained to Arram.
Stiloit held his own hand out palm up, then turned it palm down. The crowd roared so loudly that the stone under Arram’s feet trembled. Musenda raised his own sword-bearing arm and drove the short blade into the ground of the arena.
The rear gate opened. Healers ran out with a long piece of canvas secured between two long poles. One of them bandaged the big slash in Valor’s leg to stop the bleeding before they loaded the wounded man onto the carrier and took him from the field. Musenda followed them, limping, as the crowd screamed his name over and over.
Yadeen was grinning. “Well done,” he said. “Very well done. I see why you like him. I mean to leave an offering to Mithros, to keep him alive.” He grimaced. “Chioké wants me. Will you be all right?”
Arram nodded as he sank into his chair. He was not going to be sick, despite the blood the two men had spilled, but he was snake-eaten if he would watch any more of these things. And his hand was aching fiercely. He unclenched it to reveal that the goddess’s die had pressed its outline deep into his palm because he had clutched it hard. Had the Graveyard Hag blessed Musenda? And why?
He looked up at the goddess’s statue. To his horror, she blew a kiss at him before she returned to her usual position.
Ozorne came for Arram as workers were cleaning the sands of bloodstains. “Good, you haven’t vomited,” he joked. “Uncle and Stiloit would like to see Preet.”
The horrors of this day will never end, Arram thought, getting to his feet. Ozorne rearranged Arram’s hair—“Oh, wonderful, you’re using that oil I gave you!”—while Arram checked his robe for spots and groomed Preet to put her in her sunniest mood. As they walked over to the imperial dais, Ozorne said, “I’m impressed by your friend Musenda. Valor is a crafty old dog, and he’s pulled that ‘I’ll fight now’ trick too many times. In fact, I’d say he pulled it one too many times!”
“How is he?” Arram inquired, trying not to trip. “Does anyone know?”
“I’ll find out, if you like,” his friend offered. Arram could only nod. They had reached the dais. “Now remember,” Ozorne said quietly, “bow to the emperor first, Stiloit second. Bow very low to the emperor. If he points the scepter at the ground, kneel. Don’t talk until he says you may.”
Arram barely remembered his audience, except for his shakes and Preet’s success at charming the old man. Stiloit seemed to guess that the conversation was a test. He only mentioned that they had met at the plague infirmary, where Arram worked very hard. Ozorne told him later that the emperor had asked about his family, and his plans for the future. There at least Arram had done the correct thing, saying that he meant to study as much as he could at the university because there were so many things he needed to learn. Apparently the emperor was so pleased with his response that he gave Arram a purse of gold thakas “with which to advance your studies.”
When Ozorne walked him back to his table, Arram promised himself that he would not leave it again, unless he absolutely had to use the privy.
The afternoon was well along when Varice collapsed into her chair and deposited a heap of coins onto her napkin. Interested, Arram removed one earplug. “You were wagering?”
“I found some dolts,” she replied smugly. “The woman with the tiger was obviously going to win, I don’t care how mighty those big strong men who fought them looked to be.”
There were only two bouts remaining when Varice noticed that a slave wished to speak to them.
“Yes?” she asked, very much an imperious Carthaki lady. Arram wondered where she had learned the manner. She had always been a good mimic.
“It is the young master,” the slave replied with a bow. “It is…irregular, but His Imperial Majesty has granted permission, if the young master is willing…”
Arram stared at the slave, confused. Preet pecked him out of his fog. “Ow! Preet! If I am willing to do what?”
“If the young master is willing, the gladiator Musenda Ogunsanwo asks if he may have speech with you.”
Varice leaped up, clapping her hands together. “Speech! Arram, he wants to talk with you! Where is he?”
Arram blinked. With all the heat, the smells, and the noise stuffing his head, it took him a moment to realize what was being asked of him. He said faintly, “Yes, where is Musenda?”
The slave pointed. “In the tunnel.” As if they needed to be reassured, the slave added hurriedly, “He is chained and guarded. You will be safe.”
Arram glared at the man. “He is a human being, not an animal. Furthermore, he is a friend of mine.”
The slave took a breath, then bowed and said nothing. It was Varice who said, “No, Arram, I’ve heard some of them can be savage after a match. They work themselves up to such a state to fight. It’s not safe to talk to them unless they’re in their cages or chained.” She tugged his hand. “Let’s go see him!”
Arram tugged back. “Cages?” he asked, outraged. “They live in cages?”
Preet chattered in alarm. Arram realized that people were turning to look at them. He ground his teeth and followed Varic
e and the slave down to the tunnel. There loomed Musenda, covered in sweat and chained at his throat, hands, and feet. He wore bandages over several of his wounds. All of them glittered with magical treatments.
Three men in armor with the arena’s insignia held his chains. They wore heavy leather gloves and carried batons.
“It’s all right, lady,” one of them told Varice. “He don’t go mad after his combats like some.”
Musenda grinned at Arram and offered a chained hand. “You look like you’ve been eating better than the last time I saw you.” His voice was rough—doubtless from shouting in the arena, Arram thought.
“It’s good to see you,” Arram replied. “You had me worried out there.” He reached for the man’s hand.
“Here, none of that,” a guard said, shoving his baton between Arram and Musenda.
Arram trembled. He wasn’t sure if it was from fear of the guards or fury at learning those who risked their lives in the games lived in cages. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, his voice shaking. “We’ve met before. He won’t harm me.” He took Musenda’s hand. “It’s very good to see you.”
The audience in the stands was bellowing. The second-to-last match was about to begin. Musenda’s captors shifted restlessly. “When I saw you up there, I knew you’d be luck for me,” the big man said. He grinned. “But I’m a rude monkey. I haven’t greeted this beautiful lady.”
Varice laughed. “I’m Varice Kingsford. I’m Arram’s friend. And your admirer.” She offered Musenda a small purse. “I won a bit of money on your match, and I feel I must share. For one thing, Arram told me you support your sister-in-law and her children.”
Musenda bowed, his chains clanking, and accepted the purse. “You’re very kind, great lady. My family can always use whatever I earn.”
Varice blushed. “I’m no great lady—just a mage student, like Arram.”
“Mage students who sit with the imperial family,” Musenda remarked.
“Our friend and his mother invited us,” Arram said, trying to understand the wary look in the big man’s eyes.
“Surely you mean Her Highness Mahira Lymanis Tasikhe and His Highness Ozorne Muhassin Tasikhe,” one of the guards said. “Great ones of the empire.”
Now Arram understood the look in Musenda’s eyes. He’d been trying to warn Arram about the way he spoke of members of the imperial family. “You’re right,” he said, looking at his feet. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“Musenda has to go back to camp,” said the guard who had reproved Arram.
“Yes, of course,” Varice replied. “And we should rejoin our hosts.”
“Please tell your family I said hello again,” Arram said as Varice tugged his arm. “I saw them this morning. They look much better out of the infirmary.”
“Arram!” Varice tugged harder.
“Young masters! Princess Mahira asks for you!” One of the princess’s slaves was leaning over the iron rail between the platforms and the edge of the tunnel. “You must return to your places at once!”
Musenda said, “Gods go with you, Arram. Good to meet you, Lady Varice.” He nodded to the men who held his chains. They began the process of turning so the four could leave through the tunnel without getting entangled with one another.
As they walked off, Arram remembered his manners and called, “Graveyard Hag bless your future games!”
Musenda raised a hand as far as he could but did not turn around.
Arram and Varice returned to bow to Princess Mahira and chat with her again when the next match, a grand brawl between gladiators from the third and fourth groups, was over.
It’s just as Master Sebo says, Arram decided during their ride home. Each bit of stone tossed into the river creates ripples, which create still more, which intersect with other ripples, each making a new pattern in the water. There is no way to tell what might result, once you pick up a stone and throw it. We can only be ready for where the power takes us.
He turned the crystal die over and over in his fingers. He almost wished he’d given it to Musenda. A gladiator was far better off with a token from the Graveyard Hag than a student was.
—
Once he was home, Arram was careful to write perfect, unblotted thank-you notes to the emperor, Stiloit, Princess Mahira, Ozorne, and Varice. When it was dark and Preet was sound asleep, Arram did a quick sneak to the nearest shrine for Mithros with a donation for permanently damaged gladiators in Musenda’s name. Also, with considerable nervousness, he offered one of his favorite finished stones, a lovely piece of amber, to the Graveyard Hag—just in case.
In class the next day, he showed the die to Yadeen. The mage picked it up and instantly dropped it. Arram, in an unusual fit of grace, caught the piece before it touched the ground.
“Sir?” he asked. Yadeen never dropped anything.
Yadeen plunged his hand into a bucket of water. “Where did you get that?”
“Well, the, um…,” Arram stammered. Catching a fiery look from the master, he said, “At—at the games.”
“Who gave it to you?”
“Master, I don’t know.”
“I have never met this Master I Don’t Know. Whoever he is, I doubt he wanders through battle games giving away diamond dice studded with garnets. Who gave it to you?”
Not for the first time in their relationship, Arram thought that Yadeen had a very intimidating glare. “Master, truly, I don’t know.” He took a deep breath, summoning his courage while Preet scolded Yadeen. “Stop it, Preet. Sir, I was looking at the Lady of the South’s statue in the arena.” Those who did not wish to offend or get the attention of the Hag used her far more polite name, taken from the usual position of her statues. “A-and I th-thought she was moving, and th-that appeared o-on my t-table.”
“It is most certainly from her,” Yadeen replied sourly. “Take very good care of it. Keep it with you. And hope that she continues to like you.”
“Absolutely,” Arram replied, wiping the sweat from his forehead and remembering the way his spine had tried to crawl out through his skull when she had winked at him.
Yadeen shook his head. “I have never known such a student for getting himself into strange situations. First a peculiar birdie, and now a die from Carthak’s own goddess. This one thing is true: your future is written in fire.”
Arram stared at the master, hurt. “I don’t try to get into bad situations, Master Yadeen!”
“Hmph,” the man snorted. “We are making jewelry today, young mage. Protective jewelry with protective stones, for a nice, manly bracelet. We’ll wrap your die in a gold wire cage and attach it to the bracelet, if you like.” Arram nodded eagerly. He was terrified that the thing would fall from a pocket or get stolen from his room. “Start with the proper metal chain to string it and your beads.” Yadeen held up a bead. “Here’s the proper size of bead to use, so be sure to get the proper size of chain.”
Arram took the bead from the master’s hand and went to the rolls of cord and metal chain at one end of the room: Yadeen was often called on to make magical jewelry using powerful stones. He was about to measure out a length of his favorite blackened metal when he realized that Yadeen had said it would be a protective bracelet. Doubtless it was safer to choose protective metal as well as stones. His hand wavered between gold and brass.
“Take gold,” Yadeen said. “Consult your own taste.” Once Arram had chosen his chain and measured enough for his own wrist and more in the event of mistakes, Yadeen pointed to a section of drawers. “Those stones are drilled to accommodate that width of chain one way or another. I will tell you if I believe another stone will serve you better, or if I believe you should add gold spacer beads or stones for a different influence. But first we begin with protection from magic—any and all magic. What would you choose?”
Arram began with onyx, red jasper, flint, and black agate. When he added crystal quartz and garnet, Yadeen snatched them from the table and replaced them with diamond and ruby. He placed seven small ro
und gold beads on the table beside a long oval bead of mottled jasper. “For visualization and divination?” Arram asked, touching the long stone.
“And to find what is hidden, uncover lies, and obtain freedom,” Yadeen told him. “The gold?”
“Success, protection, good health—what if it doesn’t work, sir?”
“You will only have yourself to blame as the customer,” Yadeen told him. “So I would make it the best protective bracelet you can.”
Arram’s head was still buzzing at the thought of the costly bracelet Yadeen wanted him to make—who would pay for the materials?—when he reached Cosmas’s workroom. The master was seated at the worktable, papers strewn around him. Looking up, he smiled and waved Arram to the breakfast laid out by the window, then bent over his paperwork again. Arram knew the signs. He settled Preet to her own second breakfast and served himself, sketching the arrangement of his beads on their chain as he ate. When finished, he put the dishes where the master’s runners would pick them up and refilled his own teacup as well as the older man’s.
Their time was nearly done and Arram was reading when Cosmas sat back with a sigh. “Finally! I have to say, my boy, working out a schedule for your summer and autumn terms was no small task! I have only one question, and I am certain you will not be happy with it. You must give up one of your present classes—tribal magic or advanced charms. You may have one but not both.”
“Sir? Why? I like both!” Arram protested.
“And your teachers like you, which is something I never thought to hear from Urukut. He is not the easiest of instructors.”
Arram smiled. No, the teacher of tribal magic was not particularly easy, but he knew a great deal and warmed up considerably to a student who was truly interested.
“No, our problem is that Master Ramasu wishes to take you for three classes in a row,” Cosmas explained. “You are to begin work in the infirmary that serves city people outside the Lion Gate. Lindhall says that since you live in his quarters, he is certain that you will continue to learn there. That leaves you with a choice. Either you will continue with advanced charms, or take Urukut’s class instead.”