Arram shook his head. “Tyran.”
“You’re almost dark enough to be one of us.” Laman’s chuckle was a weak one. “Who knows? Maybe our family lines crossed somewhere.” He bowed his head. “Forgive me. This is a hard tale, but I want to tell you. Maybe because you’re such good friends with one of them. You ought to know what they’re capable of. See, we heard from those that could run. It really was just a tribal feud, like they’re always having, over grazing lands, I think. Ozorne’s father, that brave and courageous prince, wiped them out. Even the babies. He said he didn’t want to leave any seed that would grow. Then he came back to Medyat in triumph.” His fists were clenched. “The heads of dead men and women were tied to his men’s saddles. We’d been shopping in town when they came. I saw a girl run to him with a gold cup of wine, and he drank it. Mother and I thought nothing of it, but Grandfather dragged us back to the farm. He made us leave everything and ride. I didn’t want to return to Father—I knew I’d have to resume studying for the university—but Grandfather threw me onto a horse and ordered me to be silent. When I couldn’t open my mouth I found my mother’s father had the Gift, too.
“He took his entire household, down to the last shepherd. We were several miles up into the hills when he told us he knew the girl from his favorite drinking house. She belonged to one of the tribes that were slaughtered. She was only in town because she wanted to earn a good bride price. Grandfather was positive the cup she gave the prince had poison in it—that’s the way of the tribes. Blood for blood. Even though there was no way she would escape the army’s revenge, she’d given up her life to avenge her people. Mother called him an old fool because he’d dragged us away on a guess. He put the silence on her, too. We kept riding.”
Laman took a deep breath. “We’d gone a mile further, maybe more, when Grandfather stopped on a rise and pointed toward town. Medyat was in flames. We met up a day later with some merchants who’d sold supplies to the army. They told us the prince was dead, poisoned. The girl was dead. She’d killed herself.” He wiped his hand over his eyes. “By the time we got to my father’s house, the imperial heralds were proclaiming the whole mess was a military victory. The official word was that Prince Apodan Doroi Tasikhe died tragically in battle. My grandfather told my mother and father this is what happens to people who fight the empire. That’s surely the lesson I learned. Try it, and you get smashed like a bug. I dug into my studies, and now I’m here, a good little imperial. I may pull your friend’s tail a bit for fun, but I won’t go too far. I don’t want my head hanging from anyone’s saddle.” He set a full mortar aside and filled another, then asked, “Is Tyra nice?”
Arram remained silent for a moment, unable to wipe those pictures from his imagination. Then he gulped until his teacup was empty and tried to remember his birthplace. He hadn’t seen it in years. “Lots of canals and trees,” he replied. “Islands connected by bridges, mostly. Plenty of insects that bite. Crocodiles, too.”
“I think I will pass that one by, then,” Laman replied.
They spoke little after that, only worked. Laman had gone off for a nap and Arram had finished his third bag of herbs for the day when Gieyat tapped his shoulder. “Go for a walk,” the older man said. “Loosen up. Talk to people. Don’t come back till you stop thinking like a plant. Ramasu’s orders.”
Arram opened his mouth to say that he wasn’t thinking like a plant, only to find that words did not come to his tongue.
“Aha,” Gieyat said. “There you are. Shoo.”
Arram shooed. He didn’t want to see the other workers. They would make him feel as if he were slack to be away from his post. He did walk briskly up and down the length of the building several times, his head clearing more as he walked. He was about to return to the workroom when he heard children’s voices. The flap on a larger-than-usual area between the sickrooms and the work area was pinned back a little. Curious, he stuck his head inside.
A band of children of assorted ages stared at him. They sat, stood, or knelt among a variety of blankets, mats, and toys, all very battered. Their clothes were in much the same condition.
“What’re you lookin’ at?” demanded a boy with tribal scars on his face.
“This ain’t a Player’s show,” added a girl.
“Have you news of someone’s parents?” asked an older girl.
Arram understood. They were waiting for their parents to heal or to die. Thus the somber faces on all but the infants, who could not be left behind if there was no one at home to care for them.
Something bumped his foot. A toddler grinned up at him. He’d rolled a wooden cart over to Arram in an invitation to play. It gave Arram an idea—a way, perhaps, to cheer these youngsters up. He bent to pick up the hand-sized cart and a nearby ball.
“No, I’m sorry,” he told the girl who had asked for news. “I only work in back, making medicine.” He flipped the ball in the air, catching it one-handed over and over. He had the youngest children’s attention right away. “It’s not the easiest work, because I’m such a clumsy fellow….Oh, no!” In dropping the ball, he threw the cart in the air. The children gasped as he caught the ball while the cart was above his head, then traded it for the cart. He dropped the ball deliberately, making some of them giggle, and chased it across the floor, still juggling the wagon in one hand until he got both up and going once more. Next he invited one of the boys to throw him another ball, so that he had two spheres and the wagon to wield. He finally had to stop. His arms were sore, and he was certain he had to report back to his post. The children’s glowing faces were all the reward he could want. So too were the smiles on the faces of the healers and the workers who filled the doorway to the room.
He was about to leave when a brown-skinned little girl of nearly ten tugged on his sleeve. “Do you know our uncle?” she asked. “He’s a famous gladiator.”
“If he’s famous, how come he hauls dead folk outside?” one of the boys jeered.
“Because he’s strong,” cried the girl. “They want the strong ones to take care of the deaders, that’s why! So just you stuff it in your bum, Atim!”
As a worker came forward to end the quarrel, Arram crouched before the little girl. “I did meet a gladiator,” he said to calm her down. “What’s your uncle’s name?”
“Musenda,” she replied. “He’s very big.”
Arram smiled, glad to be able to please her. “I did meet him, and you’re right, he is very big. He’s also very kind.”