—
All week Arram slept badly, dreaming of the female gladiator bleeding into the sands. Friday night the dream changed. Musenda was surrounded by typhoid patients in gladiator gear. All the big man had for defense was the long rake used to shove bodies deeper into the fires. Musenda fought his attackers off frantically, but there were hundreds of them. His rake shattered. He fell to his knees, still trying to hold them back with the staff.
Arram sat up in bed, sweating. Preet was chattering softly in his ear.
Ozorne and Varice would notice if he hid somewhere—like the privies—to avoid the action on the sands. He would spell a couple of books so no one would see them and he could read all he wished.
No, he couldn’t. No one was allowed to use magic in the emperor’s presence. “I’ll take small books,” he said, padding into the study to light a candle. He brought it into his room and used it to light the others. The sky was still dark. He scrubbed his face and combed his curls. “And shift my seat so my view is blocked,” he murmured, thinking aloud. Preet twittered in approval.
Ozorne had brought an expensive cotton robe of a green shade that would make his skin look bruised. No doubt the color was fashionable. Ozorne would never deliberately pick something because it made his friend look ugly or ill.
As he slid into it, Preet chirred a question.
“Yes, you’re coming,” he told her softly. “The emperor himself wants to meet you. If the killing upsets you, let me know. I’ll put you in my carrybag.” He wished he could fit in the carrybag.
A soft knock sounded on his door. “Arram Draper?”
It was a slave clad only in a waistcloth. He wore a collar with the symbol of House Tasikhe. The man bowed and said, “We’ve your carriage and Mistress Varice waiting.”
Varice stood beside the carriage. She took his breath away, she was so lovely. Her Northern-style gown of bright yellow silk clung until it reached the chain belt at her hips, where the skirt flared; a white gossamer undergown showed above the low silk neckline. Her hair was braided and pinned with bronze beads that matched those in her pearl-and-bronze belt.
Varice stroked Preet’s head. “I see Tristan and Gissa.” She stood on her tiptoes and waved as the slave stowed Arram’s bag tidily on top of the carriage. Preet chuckled to herself, including tiny hissing noises. Arram smiled. Preet always hissed when she saw Tristan. Arram thought the sound was her name for him.
Within a few moments they were all four comfortably disposed inside, Arram and Varice on either side of a good-sized covered basket, Gissa and Tristan riding on the backward-facing seat. Varice produced four cups and a flat-bottomed teapot from her basket. As soon as the carriage rolled forward, she began to pour. She did not spill a drop.
Tristan rubbed his hands, grinning with eagerness. “I have to create a proper thank-you gift for Prince Ozorne,” he said. “I’ve wanted to see the imperial arena since I was a pup! Varice, if you have ideas…” He nudged Arram with his foot. “Come on, Stork Boy, aren’t you excited?” He took the cup Varice offered him.
Arram glared at Tristan and accepted his own cup from Varice. He didn’t like Tristan’s nicknames for him. Lately he constantly made jokes at Arram’s expense—“all in fun,” he often said.
“I probably have a friend in the games today, if it’s the same to you.” Arram gulped back the contents of his cup.
“Which gladiator, Arram?” Gissa asked. “We can leave offerings to the gods for him.”
Arram smiled at her. Gissa was all right. “Musenda,” he replied. “He’s a third-ranker. They’ll probably just keep him for the mass fights.” He told them how the big man had saved him when he was ten.
“I know his name,” Varice said. “He’s ascending. The gamblers think he may even beat Valor one day.”
“Valor?” Arram asked.
“Big Scanran,” Tristan replied. “Muscles like boulders. Truly frightening.”
“Stop it,” Varice ordered. “Musenda’s a third-order fighter. Valor only goes against first and second orders. He’s the imperial champion, the hero of the arena.”
“Those people are animals,” Tristan said disdainfully. “They live to fight and kill. It’s all that they’re good for, you’ll see.”
Arram stroked Preet, who sang softly. Eventually the carriage shifted. Varice gasped and nearly spilled her tea. “We’re turning! Put back your curtain!”
They all did as ordered. They had reached the Avenue of Heroes. Ancient trees on both sides offered shade and rest to weary walkers. Between them towered statues of Carthak’s greatest generals and warriors. Crowds on foot lined the roads: these people had left the city before dawn to reach the arena.
Arram had a foggy recollection of it all. Much of it was centered on his memory of the elephant, and the blood, and his vomiting, or the huge, torchlit walls and the insides of stone. Now he would be on top of the rocks he had helped to mend, and far above the elephants and the fighters.
Tristan nudged him with his boot. “Why the glum face?” he demanded. “We have a beautiful day, beautiful company—” He smiled at Gissa, but his eyes flicked to Varice. “And excitement ahead! Look!” He pointed out the window on his side. There rose the white stone oval of the Great Arena.
Arram’s belly clenched.
Soon enough the roar of those already inside the huge structure swamped them. Arram tucked Preet into a pouch in the drape that fit his arm.
As imperial guests, they drove through both outer gates without stopping, and into the tunnel that led to the imperial section. The clatter of hooves and wheels made all of them grimace. Despite the noise, Arram hung half out the window. He could feel the marble: the mixture of his magic and Yadeen’s, too powerful to have faded completely. He could even feel Chioké’s power near the tunnel’s entrance to the arena.
Once they halted, their coachman and the slave who had carried their things opened the doors and helped them to step down. The two young women wished each other a wonderful time, while Tristan patted Arram’s cheek.
“Try to uphold the honor of the university,” he said with his most engaging smile. He offered Gissa his arm and led her toward the nobles’ seating, their tickets in his hand.
Imperial slaves in crimson waistcloths and gilded sandals took Varice’s basket and Arram’s bag. Arram would have tipped the cart’s driver, but one of the slaves saw his motion and shook his head.
“It is the pleasure of Princess Mahira to see to the comfort of the slaves,” he murmured to Arram.