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 Musenda 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!”
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 Varice 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 round 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.”
Arram ground his teeth. He loved both classes, but only one of them had Faziy. “I suppose I’ll stay with Faziy and advanced charms, if that’s all right, Master.”
Cosmas blinked for a moment, then said, “But, Arram, that’s not possible.”
Preet uttered a questioning whistle. Like Arram, she was confused.
“Why, I would have thought…Well, you have been busy. Faziy has been hired away from us, if you can believe that!” Master Cosmas explained. “The Inlands Trading House has offered her far more than the university can pay to inspect and price charms for the market. It’s a splendid opportunity for her,” he added gently. “You know very few mages do well in terms of payment, particularly those who are so young. Chioké recommended her for the post. Promise you will congratulate her.”
Arram drank the last of his tea. “Of course I will, Master. I’ve just been learning so much from her.”
Cosmas sighed. “It’s true. She is very learned, and we shall miss her.” He shook his head. “Shall we say charms with a new instructor, or Urukut?”
“Master Urukut, please, sir,” Arram replied glumly.
When Arram walked into Faziy’s class that afternoon, she immediately recognized the source of his sad look. “No, no, no!” she cried. “You must feel happy for me, Arram! You must! I’ll be able to bring the rest of my family here, and you know I miss them!” Preet flew over to the instructor’s shoulder and twittered in her ear. “Preet is happy for me, aren’t you, pretty bird?”
That made Arram smile. He loved Preet, but she was a drab little thing, nowhere near pretty.
Faziy lifted a small black velvet bag, a sign they were about to begin. “Tell me you wouldn’t jump at work that would pay you as much as the university pays a master like Lindhall or Yadeen,” she challenged Arram.
He gawped at her. “That much?”
“University teachers accept use of university tools, libraries, and supplies as part payment,” she informed him. “And housing, for the ones who don’t mind students everywhere. The outside world is always profitable. I’d be a fool to turn away an opportunity like this! Now, tell me what manner of charm I hold, how strong it is, what it is made of, and how long it will last.”
Arram sighed and did as he was told. He would have to find excuses to visit her at her new place of work. She was so much more amusing than many of his teachers, love them though he did. Suddenly he sat up straight. “Will the lightning snakes follow you into the city?”
She laughed. “Of course they will! Once they take a liking to a person, they stay! Now, your practice, if you please.”
That evening Arram and his friends were discussing preparations for the spring term examinations over supper when Ozorne returned from the palace.
“Where have you been?” Varice asked as she and Gissa rose to kiss him on the cheeks. “We thought you’d be back last night.”
Ozorne slumped into a chair between Varice and Arram. “Stiloit sailed with the fleet at dawn this morning,” he said. “His weather mage said they’d have the best sailing of the summer in the next month, and Stiloit told Uncle he was going. There was a group of pirates off the southwest coast he just missed last year, and he means to take them.” Ozorne yawned. “I saw Mother back to the palace and had a long nap.” He undid a pouch from his waistband. Opening it, he drew out a fan decorated with gold lace. A gold tassel dangled from the end. “Stiloit heard you love fans,” he told Varice with a grin.
“Oh, sweet goddess,” Varice whispered, opening it. The fan glittered in the lamplight.
He handed the pouch to Arram. “He wanted you to have this. He said there is no point in getting you juggling tools, since you seem to just pick up anything—toys, spoons, bowls. He thought this might be more useful.”
Arram drew out a good-sized mortar made of a hard, ripple-filled gold and golden brown wood. It was dense and heavy in his hands. Arram recognized it at once. “Lifewood,” he said. “Great Mithros, this is…it’s an amazing gift!” And there was another object in the pouch: a lifewood pestle. Healers cherished lifewood tools. Even those with no magic could draw healing from lifewood, while those who worked spells with tools made from it increased their power several times over.
“I think my cousin likes you two,” Ozorne said, smiling. “I will say this—he has good taste.”
Varice laughed and fanned Ozorne. Arram, speechless, could only turn his new tools over in his hands. They were perfect for someone about to start work for three hours a day in an infirmary for residents of Thak City.