“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.
“You’re in the wrong room, boy,” he informed Arram lazily. His accent was pure Sirajit. “This is the Upper Academy. You won’t rate a bed here for years.” He grinned at the other youth.
Arram was silently complaining to whichever god had inspired the house staff to place an arrogant Sirajit mage with Ozorne. “Actually, there’s my bed,” he replied, pointing to it. “And I am a student in the Upper Academy.”
The black youth sat up. “Not amusing, my lad. Find your mother and have her move you where you belong.”
Arram looked at them. They had to be at least sixteen. They had more muscle and greater height than he did, but he couldn’t let them chase him from his own room.
“Ask the proctor,” he replied quietly.
“Just because you’re better at twiddling charms than your local grannywife, it doesn’t make you as good as us, youngster,” the Sirajit youth said. His Gift began to spread beyond his skin until he cupped it in his hands. “Start packing.”
Arram could hardly believe his ears. Who did these newcomers think they were? As always when he was angry or scared, he spoke more formally. “The rules were in the documents placed on your desks,” he told them both. “Didn’t the person who signed you in say to read them immediately?”
“Do it,” the black youth told the Sirajit boy.
Arram had called up a basic protection spell, seeing the sloppiness of the older boy’s magic. Now the Sirajit thrust the ball straight at Arram. These two might be older, but like most Upper Academy newcomers, they had not taken the very thorough courses in protective magics in the Lower Academy. The Sirajit’s spell sank into Arram’s guard, strengthening it. Out of the corner of his eye Arram saw the black youth fling a tight, fiery whiplash at him. It was better controlled than the Sirajit’s spell, but Arram knew the right counter. He yanked the whip, pulling its wielder to the floor.
“I’ll have whatever charms you’re using, and then we’ll try again,” the Sirajit boy snapped, advancing on Arram.
The door flew open to reveal the floor proctor. “Mithros’s shield, I am working on notes, and someone is using his Gift to fight in here. I know poxed well it’s not Draper—stop using your protections, Draper.”
“Yes, Master Muriq,” Arram said, and obeyed. He was shaking with the addition of such unfamiliar magic. No wonder the books said that most mages directed other Gifts into the ground rather than keep them, if this was the result.
Muriq was saying, “Thank you. Draper knows playing with magic in here is forbidden, so it must be you two. Did you not read the academy rules?” He pointed at the black youth, heat shimmering around his finger. He was angry. “Name, infant?”
Arram winced. He had forgotten that nickname for beginners.
“What did you call me?” demanded the black youth, bunching his fists.
“Draper, do me a service. Explain things to these two infants before I lose my temper,” Muriq said.
“We’re all called infants for our first terms in the university,” Arram told him. His own infant days were years ago. “No matter how old someone is.”
“Now, answer my question, you. If I ask again you will scrub floors for a week. That’s in the rules, too,” Muriq said, fixing the black youth with his eyes.
Arram gulped. He really didn’t think it was a good idea for a war mage like Muriq to have a temper.
“Diop Beha,” the black youth replied. “Who are you?”
“A mage learns to size up a situation before he opens his mouth,” Muriq said tartly. “I am house proctor Master Muriq, and you, my friend, will be scrubbing floors for the next week in this wing, after supper.”
“You can’t make him do slave work!” cried the Sirajit youth.
“If you had read your directions as ordered, you would know that I can,” Muriq replied.
“Do you know who my family is?” the Sirajit demanded.
“Your family means nothing here. That bed”—Muriq pointed to Ozorne’s quarter of the room—“belongs to a Tasikhe prince. The only difference it makes is that he attends a palace funeral at present. You may join Diop at scrubbing, after you give me your name.”
Arram saw rippling fire rise from the Sirajit youth’s skin, then sink. “Laman Hamayd.”
Muriq pointed his index fingers at each youth’s desk. Sheets of parchment shook themselves free of other items and rose into the air. “Take those,” he ordered. Neither Diop nor Laman moved. Muriq sighed gustily. Arram wished he were anywhere but here. “If I have to repeat myself, I will place you on report for term. Any section proctor with chores to do will place your names at the tops of their lists.” He eyed Laman’s clothes. “Those pretty things won’t last very long.”