Arram stared at his master in awe. “Mithros’s temple?”
Ramasu began to chuckle. He poured a cup of tea for each of them. “Great Mithros appeared in all his glory over the ruins, picked up his altar piece—which was untouched—and carried it to his preferred location for a new temple. So the god saved my life, but little else. To preserve their name and fortune, my family exiled me. I had only wanted to show the duke what I could do.”
He gave a cup to Arram, who cooled it with a sign he had devised to take the worst heat from food and hot drinks. “Surely you had a teacher,” he said quietly.
“My teacher at home taught clever spells and charms to young nobles,” Ramasu replied. “He was no more ready for me than I was for my Gift. I spent a few years wandering the empire, always working my way toward the university, but stopping to study with anyone who would teach me.” He smiled and looked at the palm of one hand. “I chopped a great deal of wood and vegetables after my coin ran out. For the most part I learned from goodywives and hedgewitches. Proper mages had no interest in a scruffy fellow like me. Horse doctors, they would teach me, but not proper healers. Do me proud, when you go out in the world, Arram.”
“I will, Master Ramasu,” Arram said. His heart burned at the thought of his gentle, if aloof, master being treated like a beggar on the road.
They finished their tea and returned to packing.
When they were done, Ramasu stayed in the infirmary, making entries in his supply records. Arram ambled out into the practice grounds and, with the help of a couple of coins, persuaded the ever-watchful guards to let him go into the menagerie, where the fighting animals were kept. The head keeper warned him to stay away from the cages if he didn’t want to lose a hand, then motioned for him to go ahead after Arram handed over more coins. Nearly everyone knew him by now, and assumed that however young he might be, a mage who could sew up a man’s bum could be trusted not to tease a fighter elephant.
The people who worked with the animals either napped close by or had retreated to their rooms out of the sun. Arram was left to himself to admire—and feel sorry for—the great cats, including the famous Tacuma, rare wolves and hyenas, ostriches, elephants, giraffes, and zebras. The thought of them being ripped apart by gladiators and other animals broke his heart. He prayed for them to the Goddess as Maiden and to the Black God, asking that these torn and scarred veterans of the games be given rest in the Peaceful Realms.
He was taking a shortcut to an outer gate when he heard a familiar voice. “You’ll keep your word, then, and this will be but a taste.” The words were followed by the soft clink of coins.
“I know what I’m doin’, Master.” Arram dimly knew that voice, too. He crept to the edge of the building that concealed him and peered around it, promising himself that he would start carrying a scrying mirror. The shorter man’s back was to him, but Arram was very familiar with the heavily embroidered bronze wrap and the sandals heavy with topaz stones. He had seen Chioké wear both time and time again. The other man was the gladiator Kottrun, who had made him feel so uncomfortable. Now he grinned at Chioké. “You’ll get the victory you want.”
Arram stepped back, soundless. If they were setting up a crooked fight, he wanted nothing to do with it. Wasn’t it bad enough when the fights were straightforward? He wondered what Ozorne would say if he knew his master was involved in cheating at the games.
Chioké was at supper that night, joking with the camp’s captain and the healers. He even got Ramasu to smile slightly, claiming he had done his bit by bringing more supplies. “I would do more…,” he offered with a wicked grin.
“Gods save us, no!” exclaimed Daleric. “The last time you tried to help with the wounded, we had to treat you for a broken arm!”
“I didn’t know that fellow spoke Common,” Chioké protested.
“People really like him,” Arram told Ramasu as they headed to their rooms. “Master Chioké.”
“He makes himself likable,” Ramasu replied, yawning. Then he said quietly, “Until he isn’t. Remember that. And he doesn’t like to share anything.”
Arram nodded. It was good to hear his own suspicions confirmed.
—
They woke and dressed at dawn, while their guardian brought around their cart. Six men escorted them through the gate into the gladiators’ compound, while Preet grumbled drowsily to herself. He had tried to get her to stay behind, but no matter where he put her she had turned up on his shoulder or, more annoyingly, clinging to his hair, until he surrendered. He kept her in his lap as he looked around him at the gladiators’ home. He had never been allowed beyond the infirmary. Now he was disappointed. All he could see looked the same as the guards’ camp. There was plenty of open ground for practices, barracks for the gladiators, practice dummies and targets, and empty barrels.
“For the practice weapons,” Ramasu murmured. He had noticed the direction of Arram’s gaze. “The guards take them in at night. The gladiators can do a great deal of damage even with blunt wood.”
Arram nodded. He had spent days patching up samples of that damage.
He was denied even a glimpse of the stables or the cages where the wild beasts were held, because a fog had rolled in overnight. It masked all but the closest barracks and hung like a curtain of shadows over the looming arena. Two soldiers rode ahead to unlock the chains that held the gate closed. Then Ramasu raised a hand and murmured a few words. Slowly one half of the gate swung outward. Ramasu drove the cart into the tunnel through the arena.
Although the broad road was packed dirt, their cart still sent up echoes. So did the slam of the gate as the soldiers closed it behind them. They were alone in the torchlit vastness of the sleeping arena, under the many rows of seats.
“The guards will return with Daleric and his people,” Ramasu said quietly. “I like to be set up and have time to read and meditate before the noise gets bad. Which reminds me.” As the cart cast echoes from the tunnel’s roof and sides, he reached into the pocket of the cheap, light robe he was wearing, a duplicate of the one he had given to Arram for the day. From it he drew a small packet. “You’ll want these. Don’t worry about leaving them in. You’ll be able to hear those close to you perfectly well. They’ll be shouting as it is.”
Arram opened the packet to discover three pairs of wax earplugs. He smiled. “Thank you. These will help, and I’d forgotten. Varice had some for me the last time I had to go to the games.”
“She’s a clever lady,” Ramasu said. “Devoted to you and Ozorne, I understand.”