Then Preet was on his head, pecking, having dropped from her perch on the candleholders above. Arram shook his head to dislodge her and put his hands on the woman’s chest. Suddenly copper fire slid under his palms, coating her entire body to shield her from him. Arram glared up into Ramasu’s face. Three of his patients had died so far. He would not surrender another!
“She has passed into the Peaceful Realms,” Ramasu told him, his eyes steady. “Will you deny her that? Look at her scars. Look inside, at her muscles. How many are nicked and shortened by swords? This isn’t life, Arram. Let her go.”
So he looked, and wept at the ragged mess that battles had made of a good, strong body. “Black God bear you up and give you peace, Quomat,” he whispered.
“Gut wound here!” someone shouted. Ramasu left. Arram turned Quomat’s remains over to the handlers and went to the next clear table. Someone told him there was time enough to catch their wind. The next event was a chariot race of twenty laps—twelve for the Goddess in her three aspects, four for Mithros, and four for the Graveyard Hag. Once the tables were cleared, they could eat if they wished.
Their wish was not granted. Three chariots crashed on the fifth lap, causing crashes in later laps as the drivers struggled to avoid the mess. One driver died on the spot, a helper told Arram. Two more came to the hall, one for Ramasu and one for Arram. His had a smashed collarbone and left arm, as well as a broken leg and hip.
“I’ll take the leg and the arm, if you’ll take the collarbone and hip.” Daleric had come to stand at the other end of the table. “I don’t have the power you do, to heal complicated bones that are smashed, but I can do these easy.”
Arram looked at the older mage with gratitude. “Thank you, sir. That would be good.”
Daleric nodded. “I’ll do leg first, then arm? We’ll switch places then.”
It was strange, feeling another’s Gift run along veins and bones next to his, but it gave him confidence to pull the pieces of collarbone back into their original positions. He plunged into the painstaking work, shifting swollen muscle and veins into place, until he realized Daleric was pounding on his shoulder.
“What you have is good enough!” the man shouted over the racket. “Splint it and finish the work tomorrow or the day after! Get the hip the same way—we have the rest of the race, the beast fights, and the prize matches yet. Save your strength!”
About to protest, Arram closed his mouth. Daleric was far more experienced at this. He nodded and moved down to his patient’s broken hip, while Daleric summoned one of his people with a splint.
There were more casualties of the chariot race. Apparently that was the point of such things. The faces of the wounded blurred. Ramasu made him stop to rest when there was a lull, and Preet came to sing to him. Other healers and their assistants who were free gathered around to listen. It was a moment of quiet that ended too soon. The beast matches had begun, leading with the executions of criminals before the fighting. A few warriors came in, all cared for by other healers than Arram and Ramasu. They were restoring the supplies under the tables when another fighter was brought in.
“I want Arram!” she shouted in a fury. “Arram, you rhino bums, you globs of elephant dung!”
“Here,” Arram called. He went to his position and waited, hands shaking. Should he have asked Ramasu to help him with someone obviously arena-crazed, as they called it?
Four workers carried over a woman on a stretcher and eased her onto Arram’s table. She was covered in blood, with a large stab wound in her side, a smaller one across one forearm, and a large one in her thigh.
Arram had discovered there were no niceties here. A helper poured a bucket of water over the gladiator carefully, to wash away blood and sweat. It also washed sand into the wounds, but that was a problem for the healer to handle. Arram had changed a rock-moving spell he knew to cover tiny rocks: that cleared wounds out nicely. Only then did he look at the panting gladiator.
“Gueda?” he whispered, horrified. He had not wanted to see another familiar face on his table.
She seized his wrist with her good hand. Tears streamed from her eyes. “They killed my beautiful Tacuma,” she croaked. “My cat, my only friend, they killed him.” She turned toward Arram and sobbed.
For a moment he held her as if she were Varice. Then he whispered, “I’m going to help you sleep, so I can do my work better. Is that all right?” She nodded. He said, “I am so sorry. I know you were devoted to each other.” He eased her into slumber, to help her escape heartbreak as much as to ease her body’s pain.
“Very kind.” Musenda, glorious in bronzed chest and leg armor, wearing a short sword and carrying a helmet, had come to the side of the table. “I saw the match. They thought she’d be useless without Tacuma. Others have tried it, but these succeeded in killing the cat, at least. I know she talked to the keepers about Tacuma maybe not seeing so well in his left eye, and that’s where they got him.”
“What happened to them?” Arram asked. He gently put Gueda flat on the table and let his Gift flow over her to see if he had noted all of her wounds.
Musenda smiled thinly. “They’re dead. She went berserk when they killed her cat.” He bent and kissed Gueda on the forehead. “Heal, sword sister,” he whispered.
“Sarge?” someone bellowed.
“Time,” Musenda—Sarge—sighed as he straightened. “We’ll see if the emperor, or Prince Mikrom, feels merciful.”
Arram looked up. “Prince Mikrom?”
“Oh, we’re graced with the presence today,” Musenda replied. “His Imperial Highness is here for a rest, if you can believe that. His Majesty wants to show him off.”
Arram knew better than to wish the big man luck. Gladiators thought that wishing someone good luck before a fight was like a curse. Instead he said, “You look very threatening.”
It was good to hear Sarge laugh as he walked off.
There were fewer fights now as the popular individual warriors engaged in battles on the sands. It gave Arram unwanted time to think after he finished with Gueda.
Ozorne is there, I’ll wager, and Varice, he thought. If Mikrom is present in a ceremonial way, they’ll be in attendance along with the princess. And in the normal manner of things I’d be up there with them.
He looked around. Helpers washed down the stone tables. Ramasu talked with Daleric as they ate. All the wounded who were bandaged and waiting for more healing the next day had been carried into a room next to this one. They wouldn’t hear the screams of those freshly cut or dying.
“They think of everything here,” Arram said bitterly.
A nearby healer didn’t appear to notice his sour tone. “They’ve had centuries to smooth away the wrinkles,” she replied. They both heard the approach of someone screeching in agony.