Riding an elephant, armored and crowned in gold and—for those mage-born who could see it—glittering with spells for protection and for show, he was a creature out of myth. Afoot, he was a dumpy, pale-skinned Tasikhe of Ozorne’s height, raised by gilded black pearl-studded sandals with soles three inches thick. His crown—a cap of gold trimmed with silver and assorted gems—sat on thin white hair that had been combed straight back and cropped to the length of his earlobes. A black silk robe stitched with rubies and a scarlet drape bordered in gold did not distract a close viewer from the emperor’s chubby cheeks, his pudgy nose, and the pouches under his dull brown eyes. His mouth was petulant rather than masterful.
And yet, except for the great Sirajit War twenty-three years ago, he had kept the empire at peace for the years of his reign, or at least, Arram thought, peace as the empire defined it. After Ozorne’s father had crushed the Sirajit uprising, the armies spent their time breaking up tribal wars and noble feuds, subduing robbers and pirates who hunted without imperial approval. This doughy-looking man had survived at least nine assassination attempts that Arram knew of, and restored the empire’s treasuries and granaries to a state of health unknown in the history of the five rulers before him.
Which just goes to show that looks aren’t everything, Arram decided. After all, Sebo, tiny and old as she was, was more respected than almost any other mage at the university, even Cosmas.
As drums pounded and trumpets blared in the arena, a slave selected different fruits and set them on plates, then added small cups of sauce. Varice giggled when she saw that Arram regarded the serving process with mistrust. “You dunk a bite of fruit in a cup, silly. It makes the taste more sophisticated.” She speared a grape on a thin-bladed knife and looked at the three small cups. “This is tamarind syrup, this one is cherry, and this, I am sure, is lime with…” She dipped her grape and tucked it into her mouth before the syrup could drip onto her dress. “Mmm, cinnamon,” she said with approval.
Because Varice was watching, he dipped a piece of fig into the tamarind sauce and smiled as the tastes filled his mouth.
“You should get to know different flavors, alone and mixed,” Varice told him soberly. “We can be brought low by a common poison if we don’t know when something wrong is added to our food and drink. Our Gifts won’t warn us unless, of course, you know your poisons.”
He listened to her as he watched the parade of gladiators walk the arena. He could hardly bear to see the elephants, horses, and big cats. He hated to think of the injuries that would come to them in the battles that would soon begin.
A sudden thought shocked him to the bone. I could leave Carthak when I’m a master. I’d never have to think about the games again.
He fed Preet to hide his confusion from Varice. A young noble had come to speak to her, drawing her eyes away from Arram. More thoughts crowded in. Leave Varice? He looked over to see Ozorne fanning his mother. Leave Ozorne? After promising we would stay together? I can’t! They’re my real family!
Preet, as always, sensed his distress and began to babble softly. He smiled down at her, thinking how lucky he was to have her company. He was getting carried away. When we’re all in one household, Ozorne won’t press me to attend the games. And how can I abandon Lindhall, or Sebo, or Cosmas? Let alone Carthak, when I’ve hardly seen any of it.
He was letting his imagination run away with him. Carefully he reached for his bag, stowed under the table, and opened it. A book, that’s what I need right now. And my…
He groped wildly, first in one pocket, then two more. Where were his earplugs? Did he forget them?
The first game was announced, a battle between wildcats and warriors on horseback. Varice said farewell to her guest and leaned over to Arram. She reached out one arm, her hand in a fist. “Take these,” she said in Old Thak. “Be discreet. It’s considered rude.”
She lowered her hand so the table hid it. Arram slid his palm under her fist. She dropped two wax earplugs into his hand.
She had also brought a deck of cards. “Here, play with me,” she directed. Arram left one ear unplugged so he could hear her as they played. When she lost the first game, she sighed and said, “My luck has to improve, doesn’t it? Will you wager?”
Arram smiled as Preet scolded Varice. He waited for the bird to fall silent before he said, “You won’t catch me that way. Ozorne tells me what a fine gambler you are.”
Varice pouted. “Still, another game?”
Arram nodded and rose to stretch. Seeing that the first combat was over and slaves were out clearing the sands, he removed his other earplug and walked down to the rail. Directly opposite the emperor’s place, on the far side of the arena, was a great statue of Mithros, covered in gold. In this guise the god wore only the kilt and belt of the gladiator. He brandished the short sword and round shield that were the first implements gladiators learned to use. Over the imperial seats, on top of the roof, was a statue of Carthak’s patroness, the Graveyard Hag, with a dice cup in one bony hand. She wore a black robe and hood that hid her features. The Great Mother Goddess was nowhere to be seen in this temple of killing and death, Arram observed.
“I see you smuggled your bird in.” Master Chioké had joined him. “Does Her Highness mind?”
“I left Preet at our table when we greeted Her Highness, Master,” Arram replied politely. “But I’m not so disrespectful as to smuggle Preet. His Imperial Majesty asked to see her today.” The rumor that Chioké might be a good choice as head of the School for Mages, should Master Cosmas retire, was persistent these days. Arram hoped he would be gone by then. Not only did he love Cosmas, but Chioké seemed too interested in the world outside the university. Ever since he had become one of Chioké’s students, Ozorne spent a great deal of time thinking about the world as well. More personally, Arram had not forgiven Chioké for the day he had pushed Arram to throw fire until the lightning snakes came. He had nothing against the lightning snakes, other than that they were as unnerving as Enzi, but he hated to be pressed.
The master looked at the gates opening across the arena. “Ah. The next bout. We should return to our seats.” Yet he remained, looking at Arram. “Ozorne and Varice are very lucky to have such a talented—and closemouthed—friend.”
“I’m shy,” Arram replied, thinking, If he oozes much more he will be able to skid back to his place.
“Yes. I know. But not invincible or infallible. Just a lad yet.”
Arram bowed before he glared at the man. “Excuse me, Master Chioké. Varice is waving.” He waved at Varice, so she would do the same when the older mage looked. Quickly he trotted back to her and plopped into his chair. The slaves were setting out more substantial dishes that Varice had brought.
“What did Master Ambition want?” Varice asked after the slaves moved away.
Arram turned his chair so his back was to the arena and tore up bits of bread for Preet. “I have no idea and I don’t care. ‘Master Ambition’ is the perfect name.” He saw her eyes brighten at the action on the ground and said, “Go ahead and watch. I can read.”