Cosmas patted Arram’s shoulder. “Avoid Chioké, Arram,” he cautioned. “He’s every bit as likely to have sunk those ships as Faziy—and make it look like her work.”
—
Arram and his friends survived the Midwinter festivities and began the spring term. Arram, Varice, and Ozorne began to help Lindhall’s people with minor healings at the university and imperial menageries, while Hulak began to teach them how to make the most-used medicines for animals. Arram’s schedule changed not at all, except to grow harder.
When marks were posted, Tristan had his credential in war magic. He remained a fourth-year student in siege magic, fire magic, and air magic, and a third-year student in healing and other required classes.
“Just a matter of catching up,” he said carelessly, looking over his marks. “If I bear down on those third-year courses, I should be able to move ahead into all fourth-year classes next year and start my schooling for my master’s stone.” His friends, even Arram, clasped his hand in congratulation.
Gissa reached fourth year in most of her classes; Ozorne and Varice received top marks for the third-year courses. They were well beyond any students of their own age, studying with people who were in their late teens and early twenties on average.
Since Arram was taking mostly solo courses, he was amused by the titles his teachers had created for them. “Gems in Combination with Other Substances” was Yadeen’s contribution. Sebo’s was less helpful: “Manipulation of Water.” Arram supposed it was easier than explaining they had spent the winter shifting currents in the Zekoi to scour out silt that had built up in the main channel. Dagani’s description of their lessons was one word: “Creation.” Whatever his masters said they had taught him, they gave him top marks in all seven subjects.
He heard someone scoff, “He’ll end up in the libraries all his days, writing books no one will read!”
Except for one or two other complaints about “the pet boy,” the other students left Arram alone. By giving his classes odd names and keeping him out of the view of most students, his masters had made him too odd to torment. Arram, relieved, walked away from the boards of marks to join Varice and Ozorne for an afternoon’s laze.
—
They were given a splendid treat in their free week. Princess Mahira obtained an imperial barge and invited Ozorne and his friends on a four-day journey up the Zekoi and back. They feasted on very good food, lounged in the sun or in shade cast by silk canopies, played chess or knowledge games, and visited temples and ruins on the river’s banks.
At night there was music and dancing. Preet sang so beautifully that even Mahira was impressed. She gave the bird a thin gold ring that just fit over her claws to dangle around one thin leg. Preet was so thrilled with the gift that she soared in elegant loops around the masts, as if to prove it couldn’t weigh her down. Then she perched on the arm of Mahira’s chair and sang just for her.
“Strong little thing,” Ozorne murmured in Arram’s ear.
Arram nodded.
The company also invited Arram to juggle. For this more jaded audience, and also because he hadn’t brought his juggling equipment, Arram worked as he had in the typhoid infirmary and used anything at hand. Even Ozorne’s imperious mother laughed and applauded.
On their way home, Arram leaned against the rail and studied the part of the river and its banks upstream from the imperial palace and the university. He saw the slip where the imperial barges docked. And on the university side he saw the dock used by the emperor when he wanted to attend the games. If Arram looked down the road that led from the dock, he could see the tall white mass of the arena itself. It filled him with dread.
Before his holiday began, Ramasu had taken him aside. “A week after the start of the term, you will accompany me for two weeks at the gladiators’ camp,” he told Arram. “I spend time there with an assistant during every gladiatorial season. We treat people for injuries and ailments, and for wounds taken in the arena after the games. Make sure the kit you put together once classes begin is ready—I’ll inspect it before we leave. The people in infirmary supplies know you’ll be coming.”
Looking down that road, watching the sun bathe the area, Arram shuddered. He had done his best to avoid most of the games. Now he would be up to his elbows in it. Worse, he knew he could get out of it. All he had to do was tell Ramasu he couldn’t bear to do it. Ramasu would understand.
But healing mages must learn wounds and surgery. What if he was confronted with someone who needed help one day, and he lacked the knowledge to save that person? He had to go. If he fainted, he was sure Ramasu would give him another try. He doubted the master would give him a second try if he said no now. Ramasu was a very yes-or-no sort of person.
He turned his back on the arena. He would see more than enough of it soon.
By the time the barge touched the university dock, Arram wanted to run to his room. He was weary of people. Soon classes would begin, and all of his masters had promised to work him like a field laborer. He believed them. He meant to sleep until then, in peaceful solitude—or as much solitude and peace as residence in Lindhall’s quarters supplied.
He thanked Princess Mahira as elegantly as he could, told Ozorne he’d had a wonderful time, and hastened up the path, well ahead of the others. His bed called.
For the next three days Ozorne dragged him to meals. Lindhall requested his usual help with the animals who shared their quarters. Beyond that Arram kept to himself. He cleaned cages and boxes, restored stocks of seed, bandages, dishes, perches, and splints, and mended leashes, gloves, and hoods. The other students who had the duty over the holiday were happy to leave him to it.
Ozorne did insist that Arram join him on the flat rooftop of the building the night before the start of the term. Sergeant Okot himself took the guard position on the stairwell that led to the roof. He placed one of his most trusted soldiers on the stair, assuring Ozorne that neither of them was within sight or hearing of the two youths. Once he had taken his position, and Ozorne had checked both men himself in his scrying mirror, Ozorne produced cups and a bottle of his mother’s wine. Arram spread the thick blanket he’d brought for protection from the gravelly roof. A loaf of bread and a bowl of buttermilk cheese followed. Ozorne set his prizes on the blanket, together with a knife for the cheese and a pair of napkins. Forewarned, Arram had filched grapes from supper.
“A feast!” Ozorne proclaimed it, and poured out the wine. “The only thing missing is Varice, but the girls are having their own gathering.”
“Careful with that wine,” Arram warned. “Don’t start summer with a hangover.”
“Worrier,” Ozorne retorted.
They ate and drank, and at last Ozorne remarked idly, “Mother wanted to talk future brides with me while the rest of you were visiting the temple of the Crocodile God upriver.”
Arram listened to a bat as it fluttered overhead before he asked, “And?”
Ozorne sipped his wine. “I convinced her that Uncle might take it ill if she was trying to find me a brood mare. Cousin Mesaraz is still very much alive and well and, I assume, capable of siring his own heirs. And Uncle himself isn’t in need of his heir just yet.”
“Did that work?” Arram asked. He was trying to ignore the goosebumps that prickled over his arms and back at such casual, almost contemptuous talk of “brood mares” and “siring.”
“With a little persuasion.” Ozorne’s voice was calm in the summer twilight. “She doesn’t think sometimes. She doesn’t see how it might look to someone as jumpy as Uncle. I’ve heard gossip that Stiloit perhaps didn’t drown—or if he did, it was before the ship actually sank. If Mother pushed for me to marry, Uncle might wonder if she was trying to advance me in the ranks of heirs. That Stiloit didn’t die accidentally.”
“Do you believe that?” Arram asked, goosebumps of a different kind racing all over his body.
Ozorne chuckled. “Are you joking? I was given a copy of what the men who survived told Uncle’s examine
rs. The storm came up fast and hard, so hard they lost sight of the other ships. When it passed off, the mages identified what remained of the lost ships. The rain gods were irritable last winter, that’s all.”
“We had the same storm,” Arram reminded him. “I saw it. And it had no lightning, Ozorne. No lightning and no—”
Ozorne lunged and clapped his hand over his mouth. “Don’t say it,” he whispered. “What if someone believed you? I saw them—didn’t see them—too, remember? You, me, Chioké—and Faziy. And she’s dead.” Arram stared at his friend. “That was in Uncle’s report, too,” Ozorne whispered. “Chioké told them she was dead, weeks dead, when she was found. But others knew she was supposed to be able to get lightning to come when she called. He vouched for you and me—that’s why we haven’t been called before the examiners. Forget them, Arram. Forget her. Forget lightning snakes.”
Arram nodded. Ozorne was right. There were too many ways someone might think they had a part in that murderous storm. Stiloit was gone. Faziy was gone. What did he know of murder and emperors?
“I believe in ugly storms and the mortality of men. It was poor Stiloit’s time, that’s all. No one killed him.” Ozorne refilled his glass and swallowed deeply. “May the Black God show him and those who died with him every mercy he can show.”
Including Faziy, Arram thought. Even if she used the lightning that sank those ships, or got the lightning snakes to do it, surely her own death paid for it. I only wish I knew why.
They watched the brightening stars and the rising moon in companionable silence. In the university below they could hear students laughing and shouting, enjoying their last free night for the next few months.
Finally, since they had skirted the possibility already, Arram asked softly, “What would you do? If you were emperor?” He drank a little of his wine and made a face.
Ozorne sat up and looked in the direction of each of the guards. When he saw no sign of them, he sank back and whispered in return, “I’d build a statue to my father in Imperial Square.”
Arram nodded, then remembered he was a shadow against other shadows. “What else?”
His friend chuckled. “I’d build Mother a palace at least two hours’ ride away.”
Arram choked, then said in reproof, “I’m serious.”
“So am I,” came the answer. Ozorne was quiet for a time. “I’d build two more universities, one in Ekallatum Province and the other toward the eastern borders. Students will be able to study early before they need to come here. Or they can get their certificates at those schools. Our strength is in our mages, that’s what Father always said. And two big schools for magecraft—ours and the one in the City of the Gods—isn’t enough. Too many people with the Gift are forced to make do with bits and pieces, when they could learn greatness.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Arram said, awed. He hadn’t even thought of that for the future. “Have you thought…about the slaves?”
“What about them?”
“Freeing them. The North manages without slaves.”
“I don’t know. I haven’t thought it through, but…it’s different with our people, surely,” Ozorne replied slowly. “So many of them are uneducated—taken from the inland tribes. They can’t care for themselves. Their masters do that.”
“They could be taught,” Arram said. “The ones in the Eastern Lands managed.”
“But that area, those Eastern Lands, they don’t have the open ground we use for crops,” Ozorne said, amused. “They don’t have the acreage along our northern coast, let alone what’s in the south and the east. We have hundreds of thousands of slaves. They had nothing like that number! Besides, they freed them a few at a time.”
Arram exhaled with impatience. “You could start with the children.”
“Maybe,” Ozorne drawled. “I would really have to think and talk with others about it. Why don’t you do the same? We need to avoid what happened in the Eastern Lands when they freed their slaves. People lost fortunes paying former slaves to do their old jobs—you read the same books I did. The great lords rebelled against their king—”
“Unsuccessfully,” Arram said impatiently.
“It would take time and careful planning. Years of it.” Ozorne filled Arram’s glass. “You are an idealist. Someone has to be practical. Not that we’ll get a chance to try any of this.”
Arram sighed and sipped the wine. It tasted even nastier. Why did so many people like the stuff? “You’re right,” he told his friend. “I don’t wish your uncle or your cousin ill, after all.”
“Me neither,” Ozorne replied, putting down his own cup. “If anything happens to them, I’ll have to work. There’s a dreadful fate!”
Preet descended through the dark and lit on Arram’s hand.
“Come here,” Ozorne begged. “Let me scratch that wayward little noggin of yours.” Preet complied. As she began to make her happy chirring noise, Ozorne asked, “Do you know what I’d really like to do? Or were you just pulling my hair over slavery?”
“Of course I’d like to know,” Arram said.
Ozorne sighed dreamily. “Southern Tortall or the Copper Isles. I’m not sure which I’d take first. I’d have to see what condition the navy is in. The lords of the Copper Isles have better ships than the Tortallans. It should be the Kyprish holdings, though. Once you have the Isles, Tortall is at your mercy, and the Yamani Islands. Get Tortall, and the Yamanis and Scanra are nothing. And once you have those four, you can sweep the Eastern Lands.”
Arram sat up straight, staring at his friend’s shadow. “You’ve put a great deal of thought into this.”
“I have to do something with all those history and military history lessons, don’t I?” Ozorne scrambled to his feet, making Preet flap over to Arram. He walked to the edge of the roof to stare toward the lights of Thak City. As he went, a wave of his Gift billowed out to form a dome over him and Arram: a privacy spell to keep Okot and his colleague from hearing. “Think of it, Arram,” Ozorne said quietly. “The emperor who did that would be known forever as the one who reunited the original empire, the Eternal Empire of the islands, the Eastern Lands, and the Southern Lands. One great empire—and one great emperor.”
Arram petted the bird for a moment, then forced a light note into his voice. “So what comes after that? The moon?”
Ozorne laughed and returned, rolling up the privacy spell with him. “Just dreaming, dolt. Let’s pack up and head off, before we fall asleep here. It’s not the most comfortable of beds.”
As he cast some light over them, Arram packed away their dishes. And you’ve given me an uncomfortable night, he thought. Whatever happened to the country villa, with Varice and me as your servants and counselors? It seems you have a far bigger household in mind.
On Tuesday after the start of the summer term, Ramasu halted Arram on his way out of the infirmary and handed him a document. “For Thursday, pack for seventeen days—no robes, no good clothes, only plain stuff. Bring both your mage’s workbag and your healer’s kit. A hat, strong sandals. I suppose the bird will come, too. Double-check that everything in your kits is filled and up to strength, the knives and needles sharp, that sort of thing. Meet me at noon at the university’s Arena Gate.”
Arram swallowed the lump in his throat. “Yes, Master Ramasu.”
The man smiled and patted his shoulder. “You are ready. I’ve already arranged matters with your teachers.”
Arram frowned. “But—are they going to assign work for the time I’m away? I’ll need my books. Usually—”
Ramasu said gently, “They will not. They know you will be unable to do it. Now, off with you. I have packing of my own, and time to spend with my man.”
Arram bowed and left as ordered. Walking to the dining hall, he pondered the days to come with discomfort. He didn’t want to let Ramasu down. He also didn’t want to vomit on any of his patients-to-be. What if he made a serious mistake? He had yet to do so, but as Tristan was so very fond of saying, “Everyone g
ets a first time.” Preet murmured softly and groomed Arram’s hair with her beak, telling him that all would be well. Arram tried to cheer up, both for her sake and because he didn’t want his friends plying him with all manner of questions over lunch.
It didn’t work. The moment Varice and Ozorne joined him at the table, they knew something was on his mind. Tristan and Gissa had come to their own conclusions or, rather, Tristan had.
“He’s not worth bothering today,” the young man told everyone. “He’s in one of his ‘I’m so talented and powerful, I must be doing something wrong’ moods.”
Several of the others, including Gissa, laughed. Even Ozorne hid a smile behind his hand.
Preet said something insulting in sunbird.
Varice glared at the others. “That shows what you know,” she said tartly, running her fingers down Preet’s back. The girl looked at Arram, her blue eyes sympathetic. “It’s the arena, isn’t it? Remember? You mentioned it when we were on the river.”
Ozorne clapped his palm to his head. “Already? Arram, I’m sorry—I’d take your place, I swear, but I don’t have medical training!”
“What about the arena?” Tristan demanded.
Arram ate his long bean and lamb tajine doggedly. He let Varice and Ozorne explain how he was to accompany Ramasu to the gladiators’ camp for two weeks.
“You’ll be there for the games, then!” one of their other companions exclaimed. “What’s to mope for?”
Arram glared at him. “Yes, I’m there for the games,” he retorted. “And while people are cheering as men and women are mutilated, I’ll be in back, trying to keep what’s left of them alive.”
Tristan rolled his eyes. “They’re slaves, Draper. Criminals. They’ve lived longer in the arena than they would in the mines or fields or galleys, trust me.”