Tempests and Slaughter

by Tamora Pierce

  Arram glanced up; Ozorne winked at him. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to be rude,” Arram explained.

  Varice patted his arm. “Nonsense. You are far too polite. Since we can’t hit bullies without getting into trouble, we learn to say cutting things.”

  “To start with,” Ozorne added.

  “You’re always joking,” Varice said, crinkling her nose. “May we please finish our meal?”

  —

  Cosmas was right: Arram could handle the combined sigils and writing classes, which Arram considered to be a blessing. Fish and shellfish anatomy was as difficult as birds and reptiles, though his ability to sketch improved week by week. He even found himself making idle sketches of people and plants when he was daydreaming. He was so busy that it was a month before he noticed that Ozorne was escaping their lunch group several times a week to eat by himself. All of them did it now and then—the pace of schoolwork was so intense that sometimes it was necessary to find a corner to oneself. Ozorne had done it before, but this was more frequent.

  He also talked less once he put his bedtime lamp out as February wore on into March. At study times they all talked only when they needed help with a problem. Arram noticed no difference there, but he felt snubbed when Ozorne replied briefly to anything he said and turned away.

  One Friday night Arram asked, “Do we have plans for tomorrow?”

  “No, I do not have plans, and I do not want to join in plans,” the boy on the other side of the wall snapped. “How many times can you look at the same stupid vendors and the same stupid animals? Just leave me be!”

  Arram trembled at the sharpness of the reply to a perfectly ordinary question. He hugged his pillow to his face and tried to think of a proper retort. All those he considered were too extreme, too rude, or too childish.

  He was still considering mighty retorts when he heard a deep sigh and bare feet on stone. Ozorne pulled out Arram’s chair. “Are you trying to smother yourself?” he asked.

  “Go away,” Arram said, his voice muffled. He lifted the pillow to admit air and to emit his voice. “I said, go away.”

  “Arram, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped. I don’t have so many friends that I can afford to insult them—please forgive me.” Ozorne nudged the bed with his foot. “Please? I must be coming down with something. My head aches. I just want to stay in and sleep, understand?”

  Arram wanted to ask if he’d been getting ill for three weeks, but let it go. “Anything I can do?” he asked.

  “No. Look, I just get a little…cranky this time of year. Don’t mind me, will you? Whatever I say?”

  “Have you any idea why you turn…cranky?” Arram asked cautiously.

  Ozorne gave an unprincely snort. “Why does anybody get cross when the weather’s like this, day after everlasting day? Even you…I’ve noticed you’re forever sneaking down to the river. You come back with sand on your shoes. How are you getting out of the grounds, anyway? All the gates are closed and locked at sunset, and there’s guards on duty.”

  Arram sat up and shrugged. “There’s a tree with branches that hang over the wall in the citrus garden.”

  Ozorne smiled. “I’m surprised old Hulak hasn’t caught you yet. Stop going there, will you? It’s too dangerous in the dark, especially during the winter floods. They say Enzi, the crocodile god, roams the banks, looking for fresh meat.” He boosted himself from Arram’s chair. “I’ll tell you what. I will try to be sociable, and you will stay away from the river, all right? It’s been known to rise four feet in a day.” He didn’t wait for an answer, but returned to his cubicle. He could be like that sometimes, thinking his requests—the ones that sounded like orders—would be obeyed instantly.

  Arram stared absently into the darkness. Ozorne had it wrong. Arram didn’t visit the river to escape the school. He went for the roar of swiftly moving water. He loved the waves that rose there only during the floods. The bellows of hippopotamus herds and masses of crocodiles thrilled him. The river was a god, taking trees, reeds, boats, and anything else it found. And he didn’t believe the crocodile god, Enzi, actually roamed the river’s banks. Gods didn’t just appear in the Mortal Realms!

  Someday he would take a boat along the river’s length. He would discover all its wonders, and learn to use its every magic.

  —

  “Don’t tell me Ozorne’s not coming,” Varice demanded at breakfast.

  “He said he must be getting ill. He wants to stay in,” Arram explained uncomfortably. He didn’t think Ozorne was telling the truth, and he hated lying to Varice, even if it was just a lie he passed along.

  Varice led them to an empty table. She set her tray down with a crisp clack. “Well, that does it,” she said quietly. “I’ve been concerned for this last week.” She patted Arram’s hand. “Don’t worry. There are things we can do, after I attend services.” Varice was more religious than Arram and Ozorne put together, at least when it came to the temples of the university and town. Arram made the Sign on his chest for luck, before they both ate a hearty breakfast. It was a habit they’d brought from Northern homes: when Ozorne took breakfast, he had a Southern meal of yogurt, wheat or barley flatbread, a little fruit, and juice. He often teased Arram and Varice that by the time they were masters they would have to be rolled wherever they wished. It was a joke neither of his friends liked, but he seemed not to notice.

  Breakfast done, Varice went off to her worship. Arram wandered out the nearest side gate and to the river cliffs once again. He had to give up the road to the wharf, since it was half underwater. The shaggy grass on the high ground was soaked. So were his breeches by the time he reached the heights that overlooked the Zekoi.

  The view was better than it was at night. At night he mostly listened, half entranced by the sound of nature out of control. On his rare daylight trips he observed the waves that rose in normally flat waters, waves that tossed up spume like those at sea. He counted the whole trees and dead animals that passed, bracing himself against the grief of the animals’ loss by telling himself they were sacrifices to the river god. He knew the farmers sacrificed to Zekoi, since the god provided the water that flooded their fields, bringing rich mud that sired bountiful crops. It made sense that the plants and creatures of the lands would do the same for their water and food.

  Dwelling on these and other ideas, he lost track of time. When he came around, he was caught in the middle of a cloudburst. The gate guard laughed as the dripping boy passed through. Arram pretended not to notice as he trotted back to his dormitory. It was a relief to shed his soaked tunic and sandals next to his door.

  It was much less of a relief to walk inside his room clad only in his loincloth—also soaked—and hear Varice talking quietly to Ozorne.

  “Arram?” she called.

  “Don’t come around!” he yelped, ducking into his cubicle. He scrabbled in his chest for dry clothes. His face burned despite the cold water pouring down from his hair. First the tunic for cover, he ordered himself, then a towel for my head, and a dry loincloth…

  He looked down. He had donned an old blue-and-orange tunic that was now far too short for his legs and arms, even for a Northern student.

  “Stay there!” he commanded, more panicked than ever.

  “Whatever you’re doing, do it anywhere else,” Ozorne commanded, his voice weary and vexed. “I said I wanted to be left alone. Are you two hard of hearing?”

  Arram produced long breeches and yanked them on. Decently covered, if not attractively—the breeches were tan—he looked into Ozorne’s cubicle. Varice sat on the floor near the opening, a book open in her lap. When she turned her head to gaze up at Arram, she began to giggle.

  “Ozorne, look, he’s wearing a turban,” she joked. “I didn’t know you were visiting the Ergwae tribes this morning!”

  “I wish he’d taken you with him and stayed there,” Ozorne snapped. “Don’t you know the meaning of ‘go’?”

  “Not when you say it,” she replied pertly. “And Arr
am just lost his ability to hear it, didn’t you?” She gazed up at Arram, patted the floor beside her, and mouthed, “Sit down.”

  Arram looked from her to the mound of pillows and blankets that was Ozorne. He’d never had to choose between them, nor had he gotten commands from both of them. He picked the middle road. Yanking the towel from his sodden curls, he scrubbed his hair.

  “Great Mother, what happened?” Varice demanded. “Did you take a nap out there? And what happened to your feet?”

  Arram glanced down. Mud oozed between his toes and down his shins. “The river heights are a little soggy,” he explained. He went out to the gallery, where the servants kept a rinsing bucket. He cleaned off the mud, then returned to mop his floor. Varice waited for him to finish, a wicked-looking comb in her hand.

  Arram balked. “That’s going to hurt.”

  “There’s a little of Ozorne’s scented oil in it.”

  “Will you two go?” A sandal flew over the barrier between the beds and struck Arram’s chair.

  Arram backed up against the door. “I don’t want smelly substances in my hair, particularly not Ozorne’s smelly things!”

  Varice walked by and recovered the sandal. She whispered, “Keep it up. He’s getting livelier.” In a louder tone she added, “Don’t be silly. Oil makes hair easier to untangle.”

  Arram drew breath for another protest, never taking his eyes from the menace of the comb. Without warning, the door swung open and knocked him forward to his knees. He virtually tackled Varice; she fell onto her rump with a shriek.

  “What in the Divine Realms is going on here?” demanded Master Chioké. Although he sounded shocked, he still calmly shook water from his hands and satchel onto the two young people. His long black hair, pinned back in twists of braided gold chain, was perfectly dry, as were his feet. Disgruntled, Arram guessed that the master must have left waterproof boots and a cloak hung in the gallery outside.

  “Student Varice, you are not supposed to be here,” Chioké informed her sternly. He stepped past her and Arram.

  Varice struggled to rise. Arram reached out and helped to pull her arms so she could stand. Carefully he fought his own way upright without falling onto her again.

  Varice curtsied. “I have permission from the housekeeper, Master Chioké,” she said demurely, gazing at the floor. Arram knew that tone and downward look: she was furious that the master had knocked them down without helping them to rise. “I told her that Prince Ozorne had missed the morning meal, so I brought him juice and food. I was reading to him from one of our lessons when Arram came in. Wasn’t I, Arram?”

  Arram nodded. “Ozorne was telling us to go away. I’m sure he’ll tell you to go away, too, Master,” he said, all innocence. Ozorne had told him once that Chioké said he thought Arram was talented, but perhaps a little simple. “Ozorne tells everyone to go away,” he added in the face of Chioké’s suspicious glare.

  Ozorne sprang up from his heap of blankets. “I do want you to go away, all of you! That’s the thing about this poxy, deep-fouled place—a fellow can’t get any quiet!” He raised a hand that held his other slipper. “And don’t look daggers at me! You don’t know what—”

  Chioké stepped around Arram and Varice, removing his satchel from his shoulder. Ozorne abruptly fell silent. “I am surprised by you, Prince Ozorne,” the mage said quietly. “Your royal mother would be most distressed to hear you speak to friends in such a manner, particularly when they act only from concern.”

  “I hate clinging,” Ozorne muttered. He glanced at Varice and Arram. “But I’m sorry. I’ve just been…itchy, of late. Itchy and cross and sleepy.” He glared at Chioké, who took a flask from his satchel and removed the top. It was a small cup. “And what’s the use?” Ozorne continued to rant while Varice clung to Arram’s arm. “I’ll get sucked into palace business anyway….I’ll never get to be a mage. They’ll put me in the army….I’ll be cut down, just like Father—” His voice was rising.

  Chioké deftly pulled the cork that plugged the flask and poured a small measure of liquid into the cup. Arram could see the liquid shining brightly in the journey from bottle to cup and in the cup itself. Chioké offered the shimmering vessel to Ozorne. “Drink, Your Highness,” he told Ozorne. “All will be well.”

  “You aren’t bespelling him, are you?” Arram asked, despite his own caution around masters. “We aren’t supposed to take any cantrip unless given by the healers.”

  “You dare.” There was danger in Chioké’s voice. “Just because you have dazzled a handful of soppish mages does not mean I will permit you to question me!”

  Varice covered Arram’s mouth with her hand. “No, Master, please, he doesn’t understand! Please don’t be angry!” she pleaded.

  “Then get him away from here and explain, before I teach him the respect he owes a master who will not coddle him!” Chioké ordered.

  Arram protested, but Varice dug both hands into his arm. That was when he discovered that her beautiful fingernails were not only for decoration. Wincing, he let her tow him out into the corridor. “But my clothes,” he protested. “Proper clothes…And he isn’t supposed to…mmph!”

  She had clapped a hand over his mouth. “Will you be silent and let me explain?” she demanded. “My goodness, Arram, but you do clack on sometimes! Master Chioké is Ozorne’s personal master.”

  Arram peeled her hand away from his face. “But it’s only the ones that show great promise who get a personal master,” he reminded her. “And that only in their last years at the Upper Academy.”

  Varice sighed and leaned against the wall. “Ozorne is different. His mother and the emperor weren’t going to let him return here at all after his father…”

  Arram nodded. She meant after his father had died.

  “Master Chioké stepped in and said he would be Ozorne’s personal master, even though he’s too young. He’s doing it for Ozorne’s family.”

  Arram scratched his head. “But he’s a fire mage, not a healer.”

  Varice shrugged. “I suppose he got the medicine from healers, or Ozorne’s mother. Take my word, those two treat Ozorne like gold.”

  Arram looked at his door. “So now what do I do?”

  “You take these clean clothes.” The housekeeper, Irafa, stood in her open doorway. She offered a set of his clothing to him. How long had she been there, listening? Arram thought, horrified.

  “Silly, she has to know about Ozorne, with him in her care,” Varice said, guessing what Arram thought. She asked Irafa, “May he change in your room? I don’t believe Master Chioké wants to be interrupted.”

  Irafa waved Arram into her quarters and closed the door behind him. When he returned, he found her talking with Varice. As soon as Arram handed his dreadful clothes to the beckoning Irafa, Varice said, “There’s a glassblower down the way who makes all kinds of things you wouldn’t expect. Do you want to go see? He’s under the arcade outside the gates, so we won’t get wet if we wear hats and cloaks.”

  They returned from a fine afternoon of shop visiting and talk to take an early supper. Then, carefully, they looked in on Ozorne. Chioké was still present, reading in Ozorne’s chair, when they entered the room.

  “Very good,” Chioké said, getting to his feet. “Irafa told me you were out. I want you both to know that he will sleep another day, maybe two. He has a cup and water beside his bed, as well as fruit and bread should he get hungry.” He turned back and blew out the candle he’d been using. “However, I doubt he will wake. Send a messenger for me if you are here when he does. I am in good hopes that the medicine will do the trick in restoring his normal state of mind.” He nodded at them, gathered his things, and left without bothering to close the door.

  They both looked in at Ozorne, who was once again a lump of blankets and pillows. Varice tiptoed over and rearranged the pile so her friend’s nose poked into the open air. Then she turned to Arram and shrugged. “He’s the master,” she said with resignation. “I suppose it’s just yo
u and me for breakfast for a while, then.” She waved and left Arram, closing the door behind her.

  —

  Two days later they were surprised at supper by a cheery Ozorne. “It’s still raining,” he announced as if he hadn’t been dark and gloomy for weeks. “Anyone want to race paper boats down the corridors?”

  Arram and Varice both sighed in relief. Arram never remembered to ask Varice if she had seen the glow in Chioké’s medicine.

  THE IMPERIAL UNIVERSITY OF CARTHAK

  The School for Mages

  The Lower Academy for Youthful Mages

  SCHEDULE OF STUDY, SUMMER TERM, 436 H.E.

  Student: Arram Draper

  Learning Level: Semi-Independent

  Breakfast—Third Morning Bell

  Morning Classes

  Gems and Stones

  Four-Legged Animals: Anatomy

  Language: Ergwae

  Lunch—Noon Bell

  Afternoon Classes

  Protective Circles—Cosmas—Ozorne & Varice

  Illusions: Objects—Dagani—Ozorne & Varice

  Basic Spellcraft

  Monkey, Orangutan, and Gorilla: Anatomy

  Supper—Seventh Afternoon Bell

  Extra Study at Need

  Students were rejoicing in the lazy week between the spring and summer sessions when Arram was summoned to Master Cosmas’s office. He went nervously, wondering what he might have done.

  Cosmas was smiling when his assistant ushered the boy into the master’s large office. He waved Arram to a seat and surprised the boy by taking a chair next to him.

  “Well,” the master said cheerfully, “you lived to the summer term. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  Arram turned possible replies over in his head. He rejected complaints about long hours of study and having to give up expeditions into town. Finally he said, “I like the more complicated magics, sir.”