Arram spent the next hour or more trying to make sense of this as he reduced mortar after mortar of herbs to fine powder. He had moved from the mysteries of romance to the steps necessary to create a simulacrum of a cat when someone nearby boomed, “What goes on here?”
He turned his head. Gieyat was approaching at the side of someone Arram recognized from Princess Mahira’s Midwinter party. Their guest was Prince Stiloit. To Arram’s surprise—and respect—Ozorne’s cousin wore the same tunic and sandals as everyone else in the infirmary. Without the silver-trimmed cap he’d worn at Midwinter, Stiloit revealed tightly curled black hair. His winter’s mustache and short beard were gone, leaving him clean-shaven for the summer. He’d even lost weight.
Arram’s eyes must have lingered on the prince a little too long. Stiloit halted and pointed, the sheer orange veil of his magical protection stretching to keep his finger covered. “Here—I know you! You’re Lady Varice’s friend, Prince Ozorne’s friend, aren’t you?”
Arram, startled, began to kneel, but Gieyat rushed forward and raised him by one arm. “D’you want Nazaam to skin us? Look official!” He winked at Arram and bowed to the prince. Arram fumbled, then bowed.
“It’s Arram-something, do I remember it right?” Stiloit asked.
Arram nodded. He knew he should speak, but his tongue refused to work.
“Come with me, just for a short time,” Stiloit urged. “You can tell me how the lovely Varice fares.” He glanced at Gieyat. “If your mistress grows cross, tell her I placed one thousand thakas in the offering box when I entered. My men are guarding it if you want to collect it right now.”
Gieyat beckoned to Laman and whispered in his ear. Arram placed a cover over his mortar. Laman headed toward Nazaam’s quarters as Arram joined the prince.
“The lady does well?” Stiloit asked. “I was sad to find she had left early at Midwinter.”
“She was still weary from our examinations, Your Imperial Highness,” Arram replied, thinking fast. “We were all three moved to the Upper Academy this year—perhaps Prince Ozorne told you—and we had a great deal of work to do to catch up.”
“Yet I am told that you did quite remarkably, all three,” the prince replied slyly.
Great Mithros, Arram thought. He’s been keeping track of us.
“You look like a startled gazelle, my young friend,” Stiloit joked. “Now, where does this passage lead?”
Gieyat pointed to the larger cubicles on the right. “Here, Your Imperial Highness, and beyond this larger chamber on your left are rooms for families. They are for mothers or fathers who are mending. Their children may stay if there is no one at home to care for them. Such rooms are also for groups of orphaned children.”
“And this room?” the prince asked, pointing to the largest one.
Gieyat grinned. “Healthy children stay here during the day with caretakers. Sometimes Master Arram juggles for them.”
Stiloit grinned at Arram. “This I must see! Come, lad—show me what you do for them! Do you need special tools?”
Gieyat opened the curtain. “He keeps them here,” he said as the adults inside got to their feet. Obviously they had been warned that the prince might visit. All had been supplied with clean robes; everyone’s hair was neatly combed. The staff bowed instantly.
The young people saw Arram first and began to shout his name. Their caretakers swiftly took hold of them and pointed out Stiloit. It took persuasion to get the smallest to release Arram’s hands and robe so they could pay their respects to their imperial guest. Arram helped by gathering up several of them and explaining what they all must do together. They bowed as well as three-and four-year-olds might and said “Good day, Your Imperial Highness,” almost together with nearly all the right words.
“Excellent,” Stiloit cried, laughing and clapping at once. “Very well done! My own nieces and nephews could not do better!” He bent down so he was more on the level of the smaller ones and asked, “Now, shall we see if Arram will juggle for us?”
Arram was so nervous in the royal presence that it took him a number of tries and even more drops to get his usual collection of balls, small hoops—a new addition since his arrival—and children’s toys moving flawlessly in the air. The mistakes delighted his young audience, who thought he did it to make them laugh. Finally he rediscovered his skill and convinced his audience that he truly did know how to juggle.
“Well?” Laman asked when Arram returned to his post.
“He likes children,” Arram mumbled. “What was I doing?”
“Go to bed,” Nazaam ordered. Arram was surprised to find the master working with mortar and pestle three tables away. Now she came over to him. “Dealing with the powerful wearies you as much, if not more, than spellcraft.” To Arram’s shock, she put an arm around his shoulders and kissed his temple. “Hekaja bless you, boy. When he walked out of here, His Imperial Highness put a diamond ring worth another thousand thakas in the donation box! Gods bless him and his voyages! Now go sleep, and we’ll wake you for work tonight.”
—
The next morning Laman returned to the university, done with pounding herbs for the present. Arram worked for another three days. By then Binta’s mother, Musenda’s sister-in-law, was in a room for healing parents, her children with her. Arram visited for a last performance for her and her youngsters.
Ramasu found him giving his juggling toys to the orphans. When Arram finished, Ramasu called him away.
“You’ll barely manage the journey home,” he said when Arram tried to protest. “You’ve lost weight and need rest.” He rested a hand on Arram’s shoulder. “I’ve heard little but good about you. We’ll speak more once I return.”
“You’re not coming?” Arram blurted.
Ramasu’s smile was wry. “There’s much more for a master to do. Go and restore your strength.” He gave Arram’s shoulder a gentle push. “You will see me soon enough.”
After a hideously scented medicine bath to ensure he carried no disease away from the hospital, Arram crawled into a cart for the journey home. He had only one companion, another student as worn out as he was. For once it was not raining, though neither youth was in a position to care. They wrapped themselves in blankets and went immediately to sleep.
He stirred a little when the other student left the cart, then slept again. He roused to rough shaking and the carter’s amused voice, saying, “Wake up, lad. Here’s a friend waitin’ for you.”
“I’ll help,” Arram heard Ozorne’s familiar voice say. “Mithros, what did they do to him? He’s skin and bone.”
Arram fought to sit, not wanting his friend to see him lying flat like one of the dead, still on his cot, his skin gray. Arram scrambled forward, horrified.
He grabbed the driver’s hands and Ozorne’s to get down, continuing to hold on as the ground swayed under him.
Preet leaped to his shoulder, chattering and running her beak in small touches around his ear and through his hair. “Oh, Preet, I missed you,” Arram said. His legs started to buckle.