“Her Highness is so kind to mere students,” Varice said, linking her arm with Arram’s.
On the left side of the tunnel wall, hanging over it as it sloped down toward the top of the arena itself, dozens of people sat or leaned, watching each new arrival and cheering the ones they knew. They threw flowers or shouted jests and jeers to everyone who passed under their review. Varice inspired a cacophony of appreciative whistles and pleas for a smile from the pretty lady. Arram was teased for his height and his silly bird, drawing returning insults from Preet. She produced gales of laughter when she gave them her unmistakable imitation of a series of farts.
Arram shielded his eyes, ashamed and smiling at the same time. Then he heard someone yell his name. He looked up and saw three familiar faces. Binta and her two brothers, Musenda’s niece and nephews, waving frantically to him. He waved back and shouted a greeting.
Their guide was glaring at him. “We must clear the way, sir. The emperor will arrive soon. We cannot block his advance.”
Arram looked up at the children, pointed to the servant and Varice, and shrugged. The children shouted farewells as their mother pulled them back. She and Arram traded waves before she walked out of view, and he half trotted to catch up with his guide and Varice.
“Who were those people?” Varice asked. She was already wielding a fan Ozorne had given her for Midwinter. The day was promising to be unusually warm for April.
“Musenda’s family,” Arram explained. “Remember I told you they were at the plague house? I juggled for the children.”
“I do remember. Too bad he wasn’t there to greet you with them.” Varice sighed. “From the times I’ve seen him, he’s gorgeous—so powerful!”
“And kind,” Arram said, not liking that she knew his friend only in terms of the arena sands. “He didn’t have to save my life when I was ten, or care for his brother’s family.”
Varice looked at him as they emerged into the sunlight. “Arram,” she said quietly, “my dear, it’s not good to care for a gladiator.”
“Why do you think I hate the games?” he asked, his voice soft.
Inside the stone oval of the main arena, seats were arranged in four great tiers, with the most expensive at the lowest level.
Arram and Varice followed their guide up a stair onto the imperial stand, three broad, shallow platforms isolated from the rest of the audience by a crimson silk cover high overhead. Many nobles and their servants had already arrived, including Ozorne.
He approached with outstretched hands and a broad smile. “Mithros be thanked, you’re here,” he greeted them. He kissed Varice, once for each cheek, and clasped one of Arram’s shoulders, unusual signs of favor. Of the three of them Ozorne was the least given to displays of affection. He gave the slave who carried their things a hand signal, and tucked one of Varice’s hands under his arm. “Arram, will Preet go with the slave?” he asked. “Just until you’ve greeted Mother? She is not interested in birds, not like His Imperial Majesty.” He indicated a female slave wearing the insignia of House Tasikhe.
“Behave and let this woman carry you to our place,” Arram told Preet softly. To the slave he said, “She won’t peck or bite.”
She reached out a strong arm. Gently Arram held his wrist so the bird could walk over. “Her name is Preet,” he said.
The slave bowed and followed the other slave across the second platform. Ozorne gave an imperious tug to Arram’s drape to straighten it. “Come along,” he demanded. As they stepped down to the first platform, he said quietly, “Mother is having a bad day. I want everything to go smoothly.”
“Why didn’t she just stay home?” Varice asked.
Ozorne grimaced. “Not when Cousin Stiloit is taking the Western Navy out for the summer. It’s a great honor for him, the emperor presenting games in his honor. It shows he approves of Stiloit as the official heir after Mikrom—Mikrom must have done something to make His Imperial Majesty angry. So it’s a very touchy imperial thing, and Mother and I must attend.”
“You never had to go to games before,” Arram murmured. He could feel the hum of fresh magic: Yadeen’s again, and more powerfully, that of Chioké. He glanced around and saw the two masters seated to one side of the imperial throne. Startled, he realized he felt the masters’ personal Gifts, power that was as much part of them as their muscles and bones. They were not using it; the power was simply there. Can they sense me like this, or Varice? he wondered.
“I was never third in line for the festering throne before,” Ozorne was whispering, “and Stiloit wasn’t second in line. Apparently he said unprincely things when Uncle ordered him to attend these games. You see why he spends so much time at sea, don’t you? He’d rather bathe in tar than live a day here.”
They had reached the princess’s station, a short step down from the dais. Mahira sat at a table decked with flowers, food, and a gold pitcher glistening with drops of water. A woman Arram recognized as the princess’s personal slave stood at her elbow.
Ozorne leaned down and kissed his mother’s cheek. She had been staring out over the arena sands, her amber eyes distant. “Mother, do you remember my friends? Varice Kingsford”—Varice curtsied—“and Arram Draper.”
Arram bowed and clutched his drape as it slithered off his shoulder. Straightening, he met the princess’s flat stare. It was plain that she did not exactly remember him.
“He has the touch of the Sirajit about him,” the princess murmured, her voice icy.
“Mother, that’s not true!” Ozorne protested.
“I was born in Tyra, Your Highness,” Arram reminded her. “My family has lived in Tyra for five generations.”
“A Tyran will lie down with anyone,” she replied. “As will a Sirajit swine. Their breed wallows everywhere, and goes on breeding.”
Why are people always nasty about pigs? Arram wondered, ignoring her accusation, even distant, about his family’s sexual habits. He had learned to ignore insults about his family. It was the first subject people chose when they wished to upset him. Since they could not know his family, it meant nothing.
Ozorne flicked his eyes to the body slave, who filled a cup from the pitcher. Arram saw magic swirl faintly in the liquid as the woman knelt beside the princess and wrapped her hand around the cup. He frowned. No one was allowed to use magic so close to anything connected to the emperor. Ozorne lowered a flattened hand, their private signal for “later.”
“Arram is a mage of great talent, Mother,” he said gently as the princess sipped from the cup. “If he doesn’t set himself on fire trying to light a candle, he should do great things one day. He is not from conquered Siraj. Any ruler will be glad to have him or Varice at his court.”