Tempests and Slaughter

by Tamora Pierce

  “Not all of them,” another young man at the table argued. “There were a few in that last new batch that didn’t know right hand from left. They went down fast.” He smirked at Arram, who clenched his fists on the table. “So you don’t have to worry your pretty head about healing the likes of them. They were dead when they hit the—”

  Arram’s palms were tingling. He thought it was because he was clenching them too tightly. Then Varice squeaked. Preet pecked him sharply above one ear. The others, with the exception of Ozorne and Varice, were thrusting themselves away from the table. Ozorne pointed down. Arram looked: small bolts of lightning danced to and fro between his hands. His tajine was now a charred black lump.

  The student who had smirked got to his feet, pointing at Arram. “They shouldn’t give you special work if you can’t control yourself!” To Ozorne he said, “Be careful, or your pet might just cook you!”

  Ozorne looked up at him, a sweet smile on his lips. “Be careful of what?” he asked. “I saw nothing odd, did you, Varice?”

  Varice carefully cut the fish on her plate. “Not a thing,” she replied calmly.

  Sergeant Okot, noting the fuss, came over. “Is there a problem, Your Imperial Highness?” he asked.

  “I believe some people don’t care for my friends,” Ozorne replied, eyeing those who were still on their feet. Four were already resuming their seats. “We will be fine once they have taken their leave.”

  Okot inspected those who were standing. “His Imperial Highness expressed a preference.” His voice was chilly. They gathered their things and left.

  When the young man and one of his friends were gone, Okot picked up Arram’s spoon and jabbed the blackened mass on his plate. It crumbled to ash. Putting the spoon down, Okot said, “I’d complain to the cooks. It’s overdone.”

  Varice began to giggle. Soon everyone at the table did the same, even Arram.

  Ozorne put a hand on Arram’s shoulder as he was about to go for more food. “You have a good heart, but be watchful,” he cautioned. “Gladiators are beaten and starved till they’re little better than animals. You don’t want to turn your back on them.”

  Arram nodded. Ozorne knew more about these things than he did. He would be careful. He wanted to come home again with every part of him still in its proper place.

  —

  Arram was waiting at the gate at noon on Thursday when he heard someone call his name. He looked up and down the road. All he saw was the distant shape of what he was sure was Ramasu and the cart.

  “Arram!” He turned. Varice was running toward him down the broad path from the school. He hadn’t seen her at breakfast, which had disappointed him more than he realized until this moment. His heart lifted. She was beautiful in the sun, her fast pace hugging her blue cotton gown against her curves. Her golden hair streamed out behind her. “Arram, you great dolt, didn’t you hear me call?”

  Preet flew into the air before Arram caught Varice up in a strong hug. He thought for a moment that Varice fumbled with his backpack, but then she wrapped her arms around his neck. She even kissed him on the mouth, though he expected that was because she missed his cheek in her hurry.

  “I wanted to say goodbye,” she said as he put her down. She straightened her gown and smoothed her hair. “It’s going to be so boring with you away. I know,” she said, holding up her hand when he would have argued. “I have other friends. But Ozorne is forever talking politics with people, and…” She rested her palm on Arram’s chest. “I never know what you will say or do. You make me laugh. You don’t make me feel silly or stupid.”

  He put both of his hands over hers. “You aren’t either one. Varice, who has been telling you such things?”

  She smiled up at him. “They don’t have to tell me. They laugh and they change the subject, or they say ‘Nobody cares about that, Varice,’ or…you know what I mean.” She looked around him and withdrew her hand. “There’s Master Ramasu. Will you bring me back a keepsake from Musenda? He’s absolutely magnificent.”

  Arram smiled. “I shall manage something.” He turned and waved to the master, who was perched on the seat of a loaded cart near the gate. He could feel the tiny bit of her power shimmering there atop all the things that carried his own Gift. “What did you put in my things?”

  She looked down, blushing. “A charm to keep you safe and bring you home,” she said. “Goddess bless, Arram.” She returned to the university.

  “Goddess bless, sweetheart,” he whispered. He bent to pick up the bag with his clothes. Preet cackled. “I didn’t ask you,” he told the bird, and went to join Ramasu.

  To his surprise, the master said nothing about having to wait. He only instructed Arram to put his things in the wagon. Preet chose to sit on Ramasu’s knee and talk to him while Arram disposed of his luggage. Quickly Arram felt under the opening in his extra pack until he found Varice’s charm. He pulled it out and slipped it into his belt purse to inspect later. The rest of his belongings sank under the protective spell that Ramasu had placed on the wagon’s contents.

  “You’re afraid someone will steal from you?” Arram asked as he climbed onto the seat next to the master. Preet hopped up to Arram’s shoulder.

  “You have not thought the matter through,” Ramasu replied as he clucked to the mules and set them forward. “Ask instead how easy would it be to recover painkilling medicines and surgical knives from those with whom we shall be mingling.”

  Arram did not have to think about it for very long. He shuddered.

  “By the time we reach the camp, your belongings too will be imbued with my spell. If anyone but you or I touch them, you will feel a sharp blow to your hand. The would-be thief will feel something much worse.” Ramasu glanced at Arram. “Never forget who we deal with here—men and women who have been brutalized for years. Even the soldiers who guard them are crude and vicious. Wariness must be our first principle.”

  “Why do you do it, Master, if it’s so dangerous?” Arram asked.

  “Because they are not undeserving of care. No one is undeserving of care. It is not their fault that they have become what they are,” Ramasu said, his eyes on the road. “They are slaves, chosen and groomed to become gladiators—which is to say, they are beaten, starved, and punished for their work. They grow old in combat and are slaughtered before their time. You are here because I can show you the wounds and injuries you would otherwise see only during a disaster or a war. You have a talent for healing. You may not care to specialize, but if you are to manage quick healing in an emergency, work at an arena is invaluable.”

  Ramasu fell silent, guiding the mules past wagons coming into town. Arram had always thought Ramasu was distant and aloof. Now he saw that not only was the healer a kind man in his way, but he hated the games. Perhaps he even hated slavery. Arram knew Lindhall hated it, but that was to be expected. Lindhall came from the North.

  Arram wasn’t sure how he felt. Given a choice, he would have refused the visit to the gladiators’ camp. Those muscled, scarred, roaring, violent people terrified him; he already knew he hated what they did. Perhaps Ramasu had guessed these things, which was why he hadn’t given Arram a choice. Arram also wasn’t certain he would have refused Ramasu, since the man was his teacher. If Ramasu—if any of them—thought he needed to learn something, he accepted their judgment.

  He wished now that this time was over, and they were on their way back to the university.

  “Has the crocodile god said when he means to return your charge to her family?” Ramasu asked as they turned from the road onto a well-traveled side track.

  Arram flinched, then reminded himself that his teachers always knew things he didn’t tell them. “No, sir. He gets very grumpy when I bring it up, or when Sebo does. He says he has to find just the right gift, and he hasn’t yet. Apparently he has to appease the god he offended when Preet hid on his back.”

  Preet, who was grooming herself on Arram’s lap, chuckled.

  “You are a plotter,” Ramasu told
her. “You could have asked your crocodile to foist you on some hapless hero. But you decided to cause trouble for Enzi and poor Arram.”

  “She’s no trouble,” Arram murmured. Then it occurred to him that the master was speaking oddly. Ramasu was not in the habit of teasing.

  Additionally, he did not usually sound like an elderly woman.

  Arram looked at the master and received a shock. The mules’ reins hung in midair, just as if Ramasu were still driving. The master himself had turned to look at the bird on Arram’s lap, but his face was not quite right.

  His eyes, normally gray-brown, were black and sparkling. His hair had turned to gray-and-white stubble. His face was creased with wrinkles.

  “I’m keeping the teeth,” the goddess inside Ramasu said. “It’s not often I get a mouthful in such condition. He takes good care of himself, this teacher of yours.”

  A whimper burbled out of Arram’s throat. He was used to Enzi, who occasionally visited Sebo when Arram was there for his lessons. He had even learned to accept Enzi’s company on their underwater walks. But he had also thought, many times, that he disliked meeting gods. There was just something so overpowering about them. And this god was even more important than Enzi. He knew her, because she had given him a diamond-and-ruby die the day Musenda had risen to become one of the top gladiators in the capital. He’d left the bracelet he wore it on at home.

  He tried to bow and nearly squashed Preet, who scolded him fiercely.

  “Stop that,” the Graveyard Hag ordered. “You’re frightening your poor birdie. Come here.” Arram felt himself slide closer to Ramasu’s body until they were practically touching. “Much better,” the goddess said. “Stop flinching. I like handsome young lads like you, particularly when I know they’re going to afford me so much entertainment shortly.”

  Arram stared into those black eyes. He had the dreadful notion that he could see constellations in them. “E-e-entertainment?” he stammered.

  “Oh, all you powerful ones are wonderful when it comes to kicking up a fuss. It’s been deadly dull where I live, but you and your friend Ozorne will soon fix that!” The Graveyard Hag cocked her head to one side, eyeing Arram. It made him nervous to see her wrinkled features slide under Ramasu’s smooth brown ones. “Tell Ozorne for me, always trust those who are your true friends. If you do, you’ll never go astray. He must think carefully about what people want from him.”

  Arram bowed his head. “I will, Goddess.”

  “And you, birdie—” the goddess said.

  Preet, who had settled on one of the reins, chattered at the Hag.

  “What sort of name is Preet for one of your kind, and what are you doing here?” the Hag demanded.

  Arram started to answer, but the Hag lifted Ramasu’s finger, and Arram found he could not say a word. Instead Preet began to talk, whistling, chirping, and muttering until she came to a halt.

  The Graveyard Hag began to laugh. Preet said something else, and the goddess shook her captive’s head. “No, I won’t tell—this is far too amusing. Besides, I never let those snobs at home know anything interesting if I can help it. Your secret is safe with me.” She shifted on the seat and looked at Arram. “Mules, do your job, and I’ll make certain you have an extra good feed tonight,” she ordered. Then she cupped Arram’s face with Ramasu’s hand and lifted it so she could look into his eyes again. “You poor boy,” she said, and grinned. It was a broad grin, the kind Ramasu never made. Seeing it on his calm features made Arram queasy. “You have no idea what my cousins hold in store, do you? No one can tell. Here’s a bit of advice from a wicked old lady, for the sake of those beautiful brown eyes of yours. Watch what you say.”

  As quickly as she had arrived, she was gone. Ramasu’s hand fell to his lap; the reins dropped to his knee. Arram seized them before they fell to the road. Preet leaped into the air, shrieking, and the master thrashed.

  “Arram, what are you doing?” cried Ramasu.

  Arram had one rein but not the rest. He was about to fall onto the road with them. The mules halted and looked back, ears switching.

  Arram’s ears roared as Ramasu’s familiar Gift wrapped around him and deposited him on the seat. The reins hovered before him, held by the master’s power. Arram took them up.

  Ramasu surrendered the one he still held while he cradled his brow in his hand. “My poor head,” he complained. “Do you have a water flask?”

  Arram pointed at his belt. Ramasu took the flask and added something from his own belt pouch, then gulped the water down. “Thank you,” he said. He propped his head on his hands. “It will be a little while before the lozenge does its work. I’ll take the reins back then….Which god was it?”

  Arram started, jerking the reins. Both mules glanced back with evil intent in their eyes. “Sir—how did you know?”

  “I am not insensate, lad. There is a hole in my memory, you are holding the reins—badly, do not jerk on them like that—”

  Arram loosened his pull on the leather straps.

  “My head pounds, and everything I see shimmers with innate magic,” Ramasu said, rubbing his eyes. “A god did that. It has happened to me before. Which god? Or are you not permitted to tell?”

  Arram saw no reason to keep that information back. “The Graveyard Hag, sir.”

  Ramasu frowned. “The Graveyard Hag? Now why…?” Arram glanced at the master, who had fallen silent. Then Ramasu said, “Of course. Ozorne. The goddess wanted to speak with you about Ozorne.”

  Arram nodded miserably. He wasn’t sure that he should give the goddess’s message to anyone but Ozorne, and it would be difficult to refuse one of his masters.

  “Leave me out of it,” Ramasu said. “Unless the god…?”

  “No, sir,” Arram said gratefully. “It’s only for Ozorne.”

  “Excellent,” the man replied. “Yes, I am very, very grateful she only used me as her conduit. She loves to make those who have her attention dance to her music.”

  “That isn’t very reassuring, Master Ramasu,” Arram said weakly.

  The man reached over and took the reins. “The truth so seldom is.” Setting the mules forward at a crisper pace, he said, “Sebo and I have been discussing a trip upriver in August and early September. She would like to visit some of the tributary rivers to the Zekoi, and I would like assistance in gathering medicinal herbs and insects I can find nowhere else. Would you be interested?”

  Arram sat up eagerly, the touch of the goddess almost—but not quite—forgotten. “I’ve only been a short way upriver with Her Highness,” he confessed.

  They talked about the possibility as the wagon bumped over the narrow trail. Then Arram saw a stone wall rising above the tall reeds and, behind it, the even greater marble heights of the arena. He gulped. They had reached their destination.

  When Ramasu had first mentioned the trip to the gladiators’ camp, Arram had studied maps of the arena and of the training grounds until he knew them by heart. Their new workplace was part of a large, military-style camp built on the side of the arena. Behind a stone wall patrolled by hard-looking soldiers stood wooden barracks for men and for women, an infirmary, wide sand training grounds, an armory with its own forge, and a stretch of garden for those who cared to tend one.

  To the left of the gate, separated from the world, the training ground, and the barracks by another, shorter stone wall, were the beast pens. Arram could hear lions roar and elephants bellow as the cart approached the outer gate. He hated the practice of driving animals to battle as much as he hated the practice of forcing men and women to do so.

  The guards’ barracks were behind a wall on the opposite side of the wild animals’ cages. The arena’s horses were also there, since the sounds and smells of the larger, wild beasts frightened them. Ramasu had told Arram once that there were several gates to connect the guards’ area to the gladiators’ so there would not be a bottleneck of guards if trouble arose in the main compound.

  Above it all loomed a big gate through the n
orthern wall of the arena itself. The only openings that Arram could see were ventilation for the audience and were one hundred feet up or more. It was yet another reminder to the gladiators that there was no chance to escape. Only the gate to the arena remained to them, two leaves of locked metal a little over the height of the tallest giraffe.

  The place was fairly quiet. This gate was one of iron bars. Four soldiers stood guard on the ground there, as well as on the wall over it. The man in charge greeted Ramasu cheerfully and led him inside the guardhouse to sign forms. Arram accepted the reins from the master and looked around, sweating. He could hear the thwacks of wood on wood and men’s shouts from inside. He also glimpsed two women in leather shirts and very short breeches fighting with spears.

  “I dunno, Blaedroy, he’s awful scrawny for the ring.” A soldier walked over to lean against Ramasu’s side of the seat. “Might make a decent meal for one of the cheetahs, though. Put her and the cubs in with him, there’s a good bit of fun.”

  Arram tried to ignore the man, but Preet was having none of this. She roused from her nap on Arram’s shoulder, fluffing out all of her feathers, and told the soldier what she thought of his idea of “fun.”

  “Hag’s dice, what manner of bird is that, anyway?” the other guard shouted over her noise. He was white, blond, and blue-eyed, plainly a descendant of Scanrans. “Tell it to quiet down or we’ll feed it to the lions!”

  “Preet, stop,” Arram said, trying to wrap a hand around her. She batted at him with her wings, telling him in Preet that a good peck or two would teach these buffoons manners.

  “Lookit this,” Blaedroy said, grinning. “He can’t even make a wee bird mind ’im. He’s arena bait for certain.”

  Ramasu walked up behind the man. “He is my assistant,” the mage said coldly. “I require his services in the infirmary. Should you become injured while he is here, you may wish you had reconsidered your jokes.”

  “You two, get to the gate,” growled their captain, who had followed Ramasu outside. The guardsmen hurried to undo the locks and shove the leaves of the gate open, inward toward the training ground. “Escort Master Ramasu and the cart to the infirmary and unpack it when he lifts the magic. Then stand guard there,” he added. He whistled sharply in two bursts. Another pair of guards trotted over. “Escort the cart to the infirmary and guard it while these two pieces of gallows bait unload. You may then take the cart and horses to our camp. Master Ramasu, I hope you and your assistant will be so good as to take supper with me this evening?”