Stiloit held his own hand out palm up, then turned it palm down. The crowd roared so loudly that the stone under Arram’s feet trembled. Musenda raised his own sword-bearing arm and drove the short blade into the ground of the arena.
The rear gate opened. Healers ran out with a long piece of canvas secured between two long poles. One of them bandaged the big slash in Valor’s leg to stop the bleeding before they loaded the wounded man onto the carrier and took him from the field. Musenda followed them, limping, as the crowd screamed his name over and over.
Yadeen was grinning. “Well done,” he said. “Very well done. I see why you like him. I mean to leave an offering to Mithros, to keep him alive.” He grimaced. “Chioké wants me. Will you be all right?”
Arram nodded as he sank into his chair. He was not going to be sick, despite the blood the two men had spilled, but he was snake-eaten if he would watch any more of these things. And his hand was aching fiercely. He unclenched it to reveal that the goddess’s die had pressed its outline deep into his palm because he had clutched it hard. Had the Graveyard Hag blessed Musenda? And why?
He looked up at the goddess’s statue. To his horror, she blew a kiss at him before she returned to her usual position.
Ozorne came for Arram as workers were cleaning the sands of bloodstains. “Good, you haven’t vomited,” he joked. “Uncle and Stiloit would like to see Preet.”
The horrors of this day will never end, Arram thought, getting to his feet. Ozorne rearranged Arram’s hair—“Oh, wonderful, you’re using that oil I gave you!”—while Arram checked his robe for spots and groomed Preet to put her in her sunniest mood. As they walked over to the imperial dais, Ozorne said, “I’m impressed by your friend Musenda. Valor is a crafty old dog, and he’s pulled that ‘I’ll fight now’ trick too many times. In fact, I’d say he pulled it one too many times!”
“How is he?” Arram inquired, trying not to trip. “Does anyone know?”
“I’ll find out, if you like,” his friend offered. Arram could only nod. They had reached the dais. “Now remember,” Ozorne said quietly, “bow to the emperor first, Stiloit second. Bow very low to the emperor. If he points the scepter at the ground, kneel. Don’t talk until he says you may.”
Arram barely remembered his audience, except for his shakes and Preet’s success at charming the old man. Stiloit seemed to guess that the conversation was a test. He only mentioned that they had met at the plague infirmary, where Arram worked very hard. Ozorne told him later that the emperor had asked about his family, and his plans for the future. There at least Arram had done the correct thing, saying that he meant to study as much as he could at the university because there were so many things he needed to learn. Apparently the emperor was so pleased with his response that he gave Arram a purse of gold thakas “with which to advance your studies.”
When Ozorne walked him back to his table, Arram promised himself that he would not leave it again, unless he absolutely had to use the privy.
The afternoon was well along when Varice collapsed into her chair and deposited a heap of coins onto her napkin. Interested, Arram removed one earplug. “You were wagering?”
“I found some dolts,” she replied smugly. “The woman with the tiger was obviously going to win, I don’t care how mighty those big strong men who fought them looked to be.”
There were only two bouts remaining when Varice noticed that a slave wished to speak to them.
“Yes?” she asked, very much an imperious Carthaki lady. Arram wondered where she had learned the manner. She had always been a good mimic.
“It is the young master,” the slave replied with a bow. “It is…irregular, but His Imperial Majesty has granted permission, if the young master is willing…”
Arram stared at the slave, confused. Preet pecked him out of his fog. “Ow! Preet! If I am willing to do what?”
“If the young master is willing, the gladiator Musenda Ogunsanwo asks if he may have speech with you.”
Varice leaped up, clapping her hands together. “Speech! Arram, he wants to talk with you! Where is he?”
Arram blinked. With all the heat, the smells, and the noise stuffing his head, it took him a moment to realize what was being asked of him. He said faintly, “Yes, where is Musenda?”
The slave pointed. “In the tunnel.” As if they needed to be reassured, the slave added hurriedly, “He is chained and guarded. You will be safe.”
Arram glared at the man. “He is a human being, not an animal. Furthermore, he is a friend of mine.”
The slave took a breath, then bowed and said nothing. It was Varice who said, “No, Arram, I’ve heard some of them can be savage after a match. They work themselves up to such a state to fight. It’s not safe to talk to them unless they’re in their cages or chained.” She tugged his hand. “Let’s go see him!”
Arram tugged back. “Cages?” he asked, outraged. “They live in cages?”
Preet chattered in alarm. Arram realized that people were turning to look at them. He ground his teeth and followed Varice and the slave down to the tunnel. There loomed Musenda, covered in sweat and chained at his throat, hands, and feet. He wore bandages over several of his wounds. All of them glittered with magical treatments.
Three men in armor with the arena’s insignia held his chains. They wore heavy leather gloves and carried batons.
“It’s all right, lady,” one of them told Varice. “He don’t go mad after his combats like some.”
Musenda grinned at Arram and offered a chained hand. “You look like you’ve been eating better than the last time I saw you.” His voice was rough—doubtless from shouting in the arena, Arram thought.
“It’s good to see you,” Arram replied. “You had me worried out there.” He reached for the man’s hand.
“Here, none of that,” a guard said, shoving his baton between Arram and Musenda.
Arram trembled. He wasn’t sure if it was from fear of the guards or fury at learning those who risked their lives in the games lived in cages. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, his voice shaking. “We’ve met before. He won’t harm me.” He took Musenda’s hand. “It’s very good to see you.”
The audience in the stands was bellowing. The second-to-last match was about to begin. Musenda’s captors shifted restlessly. “When I saw you up there, I knew you’d be luck for me,” the big man said. He grinned. “But I’m a rude monkey. I haven’t greeted this beautiful lady.”
Varice laughed. “I’m Varice Kingsford. I’m Arram’s friend. And your admirer.” She offered Musenda a small purse. “I won a bit of money on your match, and I feel I must share. For one thing, Arram told me you support your sister-in-law and her children.”
Musenda bowed, his chains clanking, and accepted the purse. “You’re very kind, great lady. My family can always use whatever I earn.”
Varice blushed. “I’m no great lady—just a mage student, like Arram.”
“Mage students who sit with the imperial family,” Musenda remarked.