Tempests and Slaughter

by Tamora Pierce

  The boys gave Irafa gifts in thanks for her care when Varice nudged them. Arram would miss the housekeeper. Both boys would miss their ground-floor quarters, too. Their new residence was four floors aboveground, and warm with the coming of summer, though they had little time to complain. All three had full schedules of classes.

  Arram was most intrigued by his first lesson with the small, intimidating instructor in water magic, Master Sebo, whom he had first met the day he flooded a classroom. To his surprise, her classroom was outside the grounds by way of the Water Gate. His directions instructed that he was to take a left-hand trail away from the side road to the river landing. The sign for the trail was right under another announcing that the area was re-spelled against hippo and crocodile intrusion every year.

  Arram prayed that was true. Once on the path, he would not see anything that came for him. It was hidden by reeds that grew higher than his head. A hippo would be on me before I could run, he thought nervously.

  Following the trail around a curve, he found a clearing. At its center stood a large round hut built of the same reeds that grew nearby. Sebo stood at its open door. He noted her clothes because Varice had made him promise to tell her: the teacher wore a brightly colored wrap patterned in blue and white. Her gray hair was twisted into a number of small knots tight against her head.

  “We’re going in the river for our first lesson,” she informed him. “You will be perfectly safe. You’ll be able to breathe. And you will do exactly as I say. I’ve never taught one as young as you, so it’s important that you obey, understand?” Arram nodded, but she decided to clarify the order. “No jumping, no trying to swim off, no frightening the animals. The university mages place spells for a certain distance in the river every year so people may swim—you have seen the warning posts?”

  Arram nodded. The posts were painted a bright yellow, and even bold swimmers like Varice didn’t venture beyond them.

  “We shall go past them, among the wild creatures. You are my guest. Don’t make me regret taking you on. If I get irritated, I might drown you a little bit.”

  Arram gulped. “Yes, Master Sebo. I know how to act in—in other people’s houses.”

  She snorted. “We’ll see. Now follow.” She led Arram down a thin trail behind her own home. It emerged onto a broad, sandy cove.

  “Don’t remove your sandals here,” Sebo instructed. “You don’t want to be barefoot on the river bottom. Now, until you learn to do it yourself, I will place my wards on you. They will help you to breathe as well as keep you safe.” She rubbed her hands together. “The animals will come close. Panic and I will send you to shore so fast you will be sick for a week.”

  “You don’t have to threaten me,” Arram objected.

  “Do you know how many idiots I’ve had to toss onto the bank because they couldn’t control themselves? Not everyone is fit for these conditions. Quiet,” Sebo ordered. She touched her fingers to his chest and chuckled. “Ah, you’re growing a pelt!” she said with a wicked grin.

  Arram blushed. He would hardly call his few straggling chest hairs a pelt.

  Sebo’s lips moved as power trickled from the top of his head. It fell in watery streams down his body, spreading to cover his every inch. Her Gift sparkled like sun on the water, until he looked away, his vision covered with light spots.

  Do all mages become this powerful as they get old? he wondered, staring out over the river. Is a water mage stronger than a stone mage? What about a hedgewitch? How do they know a hedgewitch isn’t as strong as a master mage if no one ever tests people like hedgewitches or shamans?

  “Pay attention,” Sebo said, flicking his nose with her finger. “Lift your left foot.” Arram obeyed. As the cold, exciting trickles of power enfolded his feet, Sebo explained, “This working blends air magic—drawing proper air from within and above the water—and sun magic—to draw warmth from the river’s surface. If you go swimming in the warded area, you know the Zekoi gets cold, even in summer.”

  As she spoke, Arram recognized the water, air, and sun magic that he had touched upon in other lessons, but in a much stronger form. The air surrounded him like a stretched-out cocoon, enclosing a mild kind of heat like that he felt while sitting in the dawn sun. The water magic came as floating weight, enough to keep his feet down, but not so much that he couldn’t move. It also made a glass-like shell that let him see. He grinned. This was the most wonderful magic he’d ever witnessed! He couldn’t wait to learn how to create it for himself.

  “Can you walk on the ocean’s floor in this?” he asked, excited.

  “Well! You understand what this does and its possibilities. I thought so. Not everyone can follow the way I work, but I felt you paying attention. We shall do well, I think. Come along.” She walked down into the river and called back over her shoulder, “Yes, you can work a form of this for the ocean. It requires a few tugs and tucks, but it can be done. You must study hard, of course.”

  “Of course,” Arram murmured, following her closely. The river surged around his feet, his shins, his thighs, his chest. Sebo’s shield fit itself around his body, leaving him full use of his hands. He was breathing, hardly aware of the cool substance against his lower body. Still, for all his excitement, he hesitated when the river was under his chin. His mind rebelled. It wasn’t natural, to walk into water up over his nose.

  Put your head under or I will thrust it under; it is all one to me, Sebo’s unmistakable voice sounded in his head.

  She could mind-speak! Arram sprang up with excitement, forgetting his surroundings. Coming down, he slipped and went under.

  He thrashed, opened his mouth to shout—and no water came in. A striped mullet swam over to peer curiously at him as he regained his footing. He was now a foot underwater.

  There was a trick to staying upright. He had to move slowly and carefully. He could breathe. The water touched the clear barrier, the one that sparkled faintly around Arram, and flowed around. He inhaled clean air.

  Sebo waited until he was steady on his feet. Then she beckoned him to follow.

  The river isn’t as clear and clean here as it is in the south. Her voice in his mind was dry and matter-of-fact. Humans dump trash into it—not the university or the palace, but villagers and city folk. Dead animals are here, of course. And there’s silt. It comes from each river and stream that touches the Zekoi, as well as its own banks. All that dirt comes right through here. It makes the waters murky.

  Even in the murk there was plenty to see. Fish swarmed around them, confused and curious. Butterfish, uaha lampeye, and bresbarb stared at Arram as he stared back. It was strange to find such interest from something he was used to seeing on his supper plate. Green and painted frogs kept a cautious distance, but they were happy to approach Sebo and nudge her. She nudged them gently in return.

  After giving Arram time to look around, she led him down the riverbed. He was soon shocked by waste in the mud: old jars, oars, entire boats or parts of them thrusting out of the silt, tree trunks, and even animal or human skeletons. He was unnerved by the human dead, his mind filled with questions about their presence. The sight of those bones and skulls made his skin crawl.

  Over their heads passed the ferries and boats that traveled the river every day. Twice they saw hippos, but the great animals ignored them. Just after a small herd swam from view, he saw motion past Sebo’s shoulder. He reached out and seized her arm: the largest crocodile he had ever seen was swimming toward them through the murk. It had to be more than twice the size of the biggest bull among those that sunned themselves on the riverbank.

  Sebo, he said, fear in his thoughts. Master—Master Sebo. The spells she had wrapped around him felt like no protection at all. There’s a monster!

  The old mage turned to face the oncoming crocodile. This is no monster, she snapped, raising a hand in salute. He is Enzi, god of the river crocodiles. If you cannot pay him due respect, keep your distance. She walked toward the giant animal, who sank in the water until they were f
ace to face.

  Despite his fear, that sense of something huge squeezing his heart, Arram took several steps closer to his master and the god. Something streamed between them, almost like a colder vein of magic. Though he reached out with his own Gift, he was unable to touch it, but he was certain that a powerful force flowed between Sebo and Enzi.

  After a moment Sebo began to walk forward again, with Enzi swimming above her shoulder. Gingerly Arram followed at a courteous distance, eventually renewing his inspection of the river’s bottom. He had just plucked a small Stormwing figure from the mud when the water above him turned darker and cooler. He straightened and stared into a huge crocodile eye.

  The giant reptile slowly swam around Arram once. It seemed to take forever. At last he returned to Sebo. This time, when he spoke to her, Arram felt the god’s voice shake his poor skull: He is too scrawny to make so much as a snack. Return him when he is at least a meal. With a flick of his massive tail that rocked Sebo and Arram, he swam off into the clouded water.

  “You handled that well,” Sebo told him as they waded onto the riverbank. “Enzi likes you. He can add much to what you learn of rivers and streams. Our studies will not be easy, you understand, but first it was important to learn if you would panic in the depths. Though I will confess, I didn’t expect Enzi to be here.” As soon as they were on dry sand, she released the spell over them both. “Come back to my home for a moment,” she said as they headed along the path. “I have a book you must study. Read the first ten pages tonight, and try to grasp what they mean in terms of the place of water in magic.”

  He waited outside while she went into the round house for the book. When she returned with it, she was frowning. “You may want to keep word of seeing Enzi to yourself,” she told him slowly. “Many of the masters don’t believe in animal gods, or magic that is not wielded by gods or human mages.”

  “Master Yadeen does,” Arram replied.

  Sebo smiled. “We are ‘tribals,’ Yadeen and me from the Thak heartland, and Hulak, from the grass country north of Jindazhen,” she told him. “We use the magic taught by our tribes and academic magic. Book magic. The masters who sneer are too blind to realize the gods and the immortals use no books. They think tribal magic is on the same level as hedgewitchery. They will mock you and do their best to shut you out of their oh-so-learned circles if you admit to taking other magics seriously. Lindhall is all right, and your other teachers. But be careful around the likes of Chioké and Girisunika. If you want to move up in Carthak, you stay clean of the stain of tribal magic.” She waved her hand at him. “Now shoo. I need a cup of tea and a nap, I think.”

  Arram trudged down the path and back inside the university wall. He was exhausted, as if he’d spent an hour laboring in the gardens. Like Sebo, he wanted to take a nap.

  As he passed through the gate, the clocks began to chime the hour. “Oh, no,” he moaned when he realized the time. “Master Hulak!” He had forgotten he still had another class.

  Luckily for him, the plants master looked at him and began to laugh. “I heard that Sebo took you as a student today,” he said. “What did she do?”

  “We went into the river,” Arram said wearily. He glanced around for a safe place to set his new book.

  “The river is hard at first. Never mind now,” Hulak said. “It’s too hot. Take a nice bath. Loosen the body. Just don’t expect me to release you all the time.”

  Arram didn’t wait for Hulak to think twice. Thanking the master, he clutched the book to his chest and stumbled to his room for a change of clothes.

  Hulak was right: his muscles were much more relaxed after a hot bath. He changed his original plan to go to bed and went to supper. Ozorne and Varice were eager to hear about his first lesson.

  Arram told them all that he could. He showed them the bronze figurine and watched as they examined it. “It’s a Stormwing,” Ozorne said. “I always wanted one.”

  “You wanted one!” Varice exclaimed. “They were horrible! They defiled those who sacrificed their lives in battle! They deserved to be exiled to the Divine Realms!”

  “They’re exactly what I want for those Sirajit dogs who killed my father,” Ozorne replied. “Stormwings would tear their warriors to bits and throw the pieces into Siraj’s stinking villages.” He was grim-faced as he handed the figurine back to Arram. “I want to triumph over my enemies. Human enemies.”

  “You don’t have enemies,” Arram protested.

  Ozorne replied, “Those who killed my father are definitely my enemies, and some of the dogs are still alive. Mother’s agents tell her their final plan is to wipe out the Tasikhe imperial line.”

  “The emperor doesn’t think there’s a conspiracy. He accepted the Sirajit surrender,” Varice reminded him.

  “The emperor is old; his mind is not what it was. He agreed the fighting was over when the Sirajit generals were executed, even though my father’s murderers were never taken!” Ozorne’s voice was tight and low so that no one could hear but his two friends. “When I’ve grown into my power, they’ll pay.” He took a breath. “And I’ll need my friends.” He straightened and put a hand on Arram’s shoulder. “You ought to think about classes that will bring you more power, you know. You won’t earn any kind of a living walking on river bottoms.”

  “Ugh!” said Varice, shaking her blond curls. “Enough serious talk! They’re holding a dance on the Great Meadow, and you two are going with me!”

  “But I’m stiff,” Arram complained. “And I don’t know how to dance.”

  Ozorne grinned, his dark mood gone as quickly as it had begun. “We’ll teach you. You’ll have to learn as a prince’s mage.” He tapped his chest to indicate the prince he meant. They gathered up their trays and dishes. With Arram still protesting, they towed him off to dance.

  —

  A week before autumn term, Arram returned from his bath to discover baggage in the two empty cubicles. Their roommates had arrived, or at least their belongings had done so. On Arram’s pillow was a note from Ozorne:

  You will not believe this. My idiot cousin Qesan, the one who cannot leave the ladies alone? He has been killed by a jealous husband. Alas, this means I must attend the funeral with the rest of the family and ten days of mourning at the palace. Please tell Varice. And would you both take notes in our classes for me when things start? Make my apologies to our new roommates, please? At this rate I will be the only prince left, don’t you think?

  —Ozorne

  Arram looked over at his friend’s bed. Ozorne’s normal mess was tidier than usual; his bed was actually made. Arram’s heart sank. Ten days, or eleven, or more—Ozorne hadn’t mentioned when the funeral would be, and the imperial days of mourning would begin afterward—he would be all that time without his friend, dealing with two new older boys. He wasn’t at all ready for this!

  He folded the paper and put it in his tunic pocket. Mithros, don’t let something happen to the others, he prayed silently. Don’t let Ozorne be the only prince left. All he wants is to study magic and be a master one day. He’d hate being emperor.

  Arram went to eat with Varice and give her Ozorne’s news. “Oh, no!” she cried, and fled immediately to the kitchens. She returned, beaming. “We have one more prince to go before we have to fast like the imperials,” she whispered in Arram’s ear. “The regular fasting is bad enough. And poor Ozorne will be stuck in the palace again. Do you want to play chess?”

  They had settled down to play when he thought of something as intimidating as his new roommates. “Is Prince Qesan important enough for games?”

  “No, he’s just dead. Beyond imperial fasting and imperial games. I always think it’s silly to hold games for someone who isn’t alive to enjoy them. Ozorne would love games in his honor,” Varice murmured. “And you’ll be past this game if you don’t concentrate.”

  Varice sighed. “Come on, play. Your queen’s in danger.”

  He lost, of course. His mind wasn’t really on chess. It was on the succession
and new roommates.

  “Have you met the new boys?” she asked as he walked her back to her room.

  “Not yet. I was happy when it was just me and Ozorne,” he admitted.

  “You’ll be fine,” she said. It was as much an order as a reassurance. “If they give you a hard time, ask your friend Enzi to visit you.”

  Arram grimaced. “He’s not a friend!” Twice now he had seen the huge crocodile in river lessons with Sebo. It was two times too many, being so close to a god. Despite Sebo’s caution, he had told Ozorne and Varice about the immense creature. He knew they wouldn’t turn up their noses over his arm’s-length acquaintance with a “tribal” god.

  Varice chuckled and nudged him with her shoulder. “All right, then, Master Yadeen.”

  Arram shivered. “I think I’m more afraid of bothering Master Yadeen than even Enzi.”

  They reached the girls’ dormitory and halted. The hall proctor never let males pass her. “Breakfast?” Arram asked.

  “I will see you there,” Varice promised.

  For a moment he looked into her eyes. The urge to kiss her swept over him. There was the tiniest of smiles on her mouth, as if she wouldn’t mind, as if she even expected it….

  Three girls came running up, breaking the moment. Arram mumbled a good night and left her to be carried along by the others. He walked off toward his dormitory, feeling more cheerful.

  When he opened his door, he found his new roommates. They had made their beds and distributed their belongings into wardrobes, chests, and desk drawers. Now they turned as one to stare at Arram. The taller of the pair was black-skinned, his hair shaved close to his scalp. His brown eyes were intense. He wore a comfortable tunic and breeches of the same bleached white cotton. A broad sash belt of the blue commonly worn in Zallara Province lay coiled on his desk.

  The other youth sat cross-legged on the center of the floor, while the Zallaran had stretched out and propped himself up on pillows so he could read. This one wore his black hair combed back. His skin was light brown like Arram’s, his eyes as black as his hair. He had a long, stubborn nose and an even more stubborn chin. His clothes were expensive: green silk shirt, brown linen breeches, and white silk stockings. The boots that stood limply beside his bed were also expensively made.