Tempests and Slaughter

by Tamora Pierce

  “Yes, Master Nazaam,” Arram murmured. He knew who she was now: the director of magic at the university’s School of Medicine. When the emperor panicked, he sent for her. One thing of which Arram was certain—he would not call for her, no matter how panicked he was. She was too frightening.

  He worked and worked. Sometimes he would stop to stretch and find a cup of water, or a cup of tea, or a bowl of soup just out of his elbow’s reach. He would consume them all, stretch again, and return to his mortar.

  As he worked the stale plants, his power over them grew. His Gift passed through the withered stems, leaves, seeds, and flowers as he ground them to fine powder. He drew out their memories of when they were fresh, drinking water and singing their prayers to the gods of plants. There was Mother Sun and Father Rain, both kind and cruel; Soil, without which there was no life; and the Biting Hordes, savaging their flesh when they were not devout enough. Arram carried away their memories of insects devouring them and made them vigorous once more, filled with the substance in each type of plant that would help bring healing to the sick.

  Dimly he felt something grip him by a branch and shake him. He didn’t think he had any ripe fruit to drop.

  A voice he remembered—Nazaam?—shouted somewhere, “Pox take her, that idiot Hirusy should have pulled him out of the line at dawn. He’s been here hours past….Boy! Boy! What’s his name?”

  “Arram.” That coarse voice, he knew it, too. Gieyat. But what was Gieyat grass, or a Nazaam tree?

  “Arram. Arram, let go of the pestle. Hekaja Healer, Gieyat, his fingers are like old roots.”

  “Let me, Nazaam. When they’ve been fighting awhile, they can’t always tell when the battle’s done. Here you go, youngster. It’s after sunrise. You need to sleep. You’ve been at it all night.”

  But sunrise was the time for waking, wasn’t it?

  What had he been at all night?

  “I swear, I’ll put Hirusy on chamber pot detail. I’ll take his other side. Good thing his Gift is relaxing. Ramasu would never forgive me if I damaged his boy.” Nazaam put one warm hand on his shoulder, so warm, like Mother Sun. Then Nazaam—Master Nazaam—struggled with his hand until she opened his fingers. They hurt! Great Mother, his fingers hurt!

  Once Nazaam got her very warm fingers worked between his, the cramps began to ease. She and Gieyat first helped him to straighten, then to walk a little, then found him a bed. He toppled onto it and slept.

  —

  His sore and swollen mortar hand woke him around noon. He did not want to leave his cot. Staff members dragged him and several other swollen-handed young men outside into a cloth-surrounded enclosure. Once the staff dumped large buckets of very cold water on them, he saw the force of their argument. They made it up to him and his companions, once the young men had pulled on fresh shifts and their sandals, by presenting them with bowls of tea and bread rolled around cubes of lamb or beef, eggs, hot peppers, and yogurt sauce. Arram felt nearly human as he approached his post. Even the sight of piled bags of herbs didn’t daunt him.

  The place on Arram’s formerly empty side was filled by a young man who worked his mortar full of herbs diligently. Arram extended a touch of his Gift and sighed enviously. His neighbor had much fresher plants than he did. He risked another glance at the young man before he opened his first bag and poured dry, crackling leaves into his mortar. There was something familiar about him, in the light brown shade of his skin and the length of his nose. He should know who it was….His pestle slipped and struck the edge of his mortar. He ought to pay attention to his work.

  He’d begun his third bowl when he heard a quiet—and most definitely familiar—voice inquire, “What, no leftover prince at your side?”

  He glanced around a moment before he realized the query had come from his mysterious neighbor. He glared at the young man, about to snap at him, when he recognized the face that was now turned toward him. “Laman?”

  “I know, you didn’t recognize me without Diop.” Arram’s former roommate smiled at him. “I scarcely recognized you without your friend. And they told me my neighbor thought he turned into a tree during his first shift.”

  Arram looked down. “I forgot myself.”

  “If I’d known you were here, I’d have worked it out. Aren’t you young for this?”

  Arram scowled. “Aren’t you?”

  Laman smiled crookedly. “Everyone who specializes in healing magic starts with chores, I’ll have you know. It was this or peeling. I can mash with both hands, but I can’t peel with both. Here I am. I don’t wear out like single-handed crushers.”

  Arram covered his mouth so no one passing would hear him chuckle.

  Laman pointed at him. “Ha. You can laugh.”

  Arram scowled. “I do it all the time. You’re the one who’s so serious.”

  “If you came from my homeland, you would be serious, too.” Laman turned away from Arram, staring down the corridor.

  Arram asked, “You’ve always lived in Siraj?”

  Sighing, Laman turned back to his mortar and pestle. “Until I came here, yes.”

  Arram got back to work. “You see,” he began, letting power flow into his herbs, “I was wondering what happened in the Sirajit highlands during the uprising.”

  Laman glared at him.

  “I’m not—I’m not trying to offend,” Arram told him. “But all I know is from the history books and the very little Ozorne says.”

  The older youth snorted. “Oh, yes, the hero’s son.”

  Arram wanted to defend his friend, but he wanted knowledge even more. A tutor had once informed him that his curiosity would be his doom. “Please—I would just like to know about Prince Apodan’s last campaign.”

  “Campaign!” Laman caught himself and looked around, as if he thought he might be punished. He inspected Arram, then said, “Never say you heard a word from me. It could ruin my family if—”

  “I would never tell,” Arram said quickly. “I swear by Mithros, Minoss, and Shakith.”

  Laman blinked. “The gods punish oath breakers.”

  “I know.” Arram’s books always had reports of what happened to them.

  They returned to their work. “The army’s conquest of Siraj ruined my great-grandfather and grandfather. They owned and sailed ships until the empire commandeered them to pay the expenses of the conquest of Siraj.” His face was bitter. “My father restored the family fortune when he became the imperial governor’s personal healer, and the healer for his family. That was his Gift. My grandfather was so heartbroken he took to the mountains, to my grandmother’s family farm. He herded sheep, and did well at it…or he used to.”

  He poured himself a cup of water from his pitcher and drank. “My mother took me to visit Grandfather for my birthday. His place was in a northern valley, just outside what was the town of Medyat. We were there when the army came, so we went to see Prince Apodan and the soldiers as they marched through town. They were going to put down a rebellion farther south. Rebellion! A couple of tribes were feuding, and they had pulled more tribes into it. The prince saw his chance for military glory.” Laman looked at Arram and frowned. “Are you Carthaki?”

  Arram shook his head. “Tyran.”

  “You’re almost dark enough to be one of us.” Laman’s chuckle was a weak one. “Who knows? Maybe our family lines crossed somewhere.” He bowed his head. “Forgive me. This is a hard tale, but I want to tell you. Maybe because you’re such good friends with one of them. You ought to know what they’re capable of. See, we heard from those that could run. It really was just a tribal feud, like they’re always having, over grazing lands, I think. Ozorne’s father, that brave and courageous prince, wiped them out. Even the babies. He said he didn’t want to leave any seed that would grow. Then he came back to Medyat in triumph.” His fists were clenched. “The heads of dead men and women were tied to his men’s saddles. We’d been shopping in town when they came. I saw a girl run to him with a gold cup of wine, and he drank it. Mother and
I thought nothing of it, but Grandfather dragged us back to the farm. He made us leave everything and ride. I didn’t want to return to Father—I knew I’d have to resume studying for the university—but Grandfather threw me onto a horse and ordered me to be silent. When I couldn’t open my mouth I found my mother’s father had the Gift, too.

  “He took his entire household, down to the last shepherd. We were several miles up into the hills when he told us he knew the girl from his favorite drinking house. She belonged to one of the tribes that were slaughtered. She was only in town because she wanted to earn a good bride price. Grandfather was positive the cup she gave the prince had poison in it—that’s the way of the tribes. Blood for blood. Even though there was no way she would escape the army’s revenge, she’d given up her life to avenge her people. Mother called him an old fool because he’d dragged us away on a guess. He put the silence on her, too. We kept riding.”

  Laman took a deep breath. “We’d gone a mile further, maybe more, when Grandfather stopped on a rise and pointed toward town. Medyat was in flames. We met up a day later with some merchants who’d sold supplies to the army. They told us the prince was dead, poisoned. The girl was dead. She’d killed herself.” He wiped his hand over his eyes. “By the time we got to my father’s house, the imperial heralds were proclaiming the whole mess was a military victory. The official word was that Prince Apodan Doroi Tasikhe died tragically in battle. My grandfather told my mother and father this is what happens to people who fight the empire. That’s surely the lesson I learned. Try it, and you get smashed like a bug. I dug into my studies, and now I’m here, a good little imperial. I may pull your friend’s tail a bit for fun, but I won’t go too far. I don’t want my head hanging from anyone’s saddle.” He set a full mortar aside and filled another, then asked, “Is Tyra nice?”

  Arram remained silent for a moment, unable to wipe those pictures from his imagination. Then he gulped until his teacup was empty and tried to remember his birthplace. He hadn’t seen it in years. “Lots of canals and trees,” he replied. “Islands connected by bridges, mostly. Plenty of insects that bite. Crocodiles, too.”

  “I think I will pass that one by, then,” Laman replied.

  They spoke little after that, only worked. Laman had gone off for a nap and Arram had finished his third bag of herbs for the day when Gieyat tapped his shoulder. “Go for a walk,” the older man said. “Loosen up. Talk to people. Don’t come back till you stop thinking like a plant. Ramasu’s orders.”

  Arram opened his mouth to say that he wasn’t thinking like a plant, only to find that words did not come to his tongue.

  “Aha,” Gieyat said. “There you are. Shoo.”

  Arram shooed. He didn’t want to see the other workers. They would make him feel as if he were slack to be away from his post. He did walk briskly up and down the length of the building several times, his head clearing more as he walked. He was about to return to the workroom when he heard children’s voices. The flap on a larger-than-usual area between the sickrooms and the work area was pinned back a little. Curious, he stuck his head inside.

  A band of children of assorted ages stared at him. They sat, stood, or knelt among a variety of blankets, mats, and toys, all very battered. Their clothes were in much the same condition.

  “What’re you lookin’ at?” demanded a boy with tribal scars on his face.

  “This ain’t a Player’s show,” added a girl.

  “Have you news of someone’s parents?” asked an older girl.

  Arram understood. They were waiting for their parents to heal or to die. Thus the somber faces on all but the infants, who could not be left behind if there was no one at home to care for them.

  Something bumped his foot. A toddler grinned up at him. He’d rolled a wooden cart over to Arram in an invitation to play. It gave Arram an idea—a way, perhaps, to cheer these youngsters up. He bent to pick up the hand-sized cart and a nearby ball.

  “No, I’m sorry,” he told the girl who had asked for news. “I only work in back, making medicine.” He flipped the ball in the air, catching it one-handed over and over. He had the youngest children’s attention right away. “It’s not the easiest work, because I’m such a clumsy fellow….Oh, no!” In dropping the ball, he threw the cart in the air. The children gasped as he caught the ball while the cart was above his head, then traded it for the cart. He dropped the ball deliberately, making some of them giggle, and chased it across the floor, still juggling the wagon in one hand until he got both up and going once more. Next he invited one of the boys to throw him another ball, so that he had two spheres and the wagon to wield. He finally had to stop. His arms were sore, and he was certain he had to report back to his post. The children’s glowing faces were all the reward he could want. So too were the smiles on the faces of the healers and the workers who filled the doorway to the room.

  He was about to leave when a brown-skinned little girl of nearly ten tugged on his sleeve. “Do you know our uncle?” she asked. “He’s a famous gladiator.”

  “If he’s famous, how come he hauls dead folk outside?” one of the boys jeered.

  “Because he’s strong,” cried the girl. “They want the strong ones to take care of the deaders, that’s why! So just you stuff it in your bum, Atim!”

  As a worker came forward to end the quarrel, Arram crouched before the little girl. “I did meet a gladiator,” he said to calm her down. “What’s your uncle’s name?”

  “Musenda,” she replied. “He’s very big.”

  Arram smiled, glad to be able to please her. “I did meet him, and you’re right, he is very big. He’s also very kind.”

  “He is! He is!” The girl jumped up and down, excited. Two smaller boys ran over. She told them, “He knows Uncle!” They grinned up at him, urchins in rags, one clutching a wooden doll painted like a gladiator. Their sister told Arram, “Uncle Musenda started to watch over us when Da died. He was going to buy us a new place to live, but then Ma got sick.”

  “I will pray to the goddess to spare your mother, and that one day you will have your new house,” Arram said.

  “Will you come back and do tricks some more?” asked the older of the two boys. The other children in the room echoed his request, begging so frantically that Arram promised. He shook hands with Musenda’s nephews and hurried back to his tasks.

  —

  The next time he was ordered to take the morning off, he surrendered to the cold bath, ate a sitting-down meal, and took a walk through the building. Then, as promised, he returned to the children’s waiting room. He was delighted to see Musenda, still wearing the spell-mark that kept him in the plague area, seated cross-legged on the floor. He had a nephew on each knee and a cluster of children before him. They were intent as he told them a story of those who trained tigers in the gladiators’ camp.

  The moment he finished the tale, his niece flew across the room to Arram. “Uncle,” she cried, “this is our friend Arram. He juggles.” She seized Arram’s hand and pulled him over to the big gladiator, who was rising to his feet. “He says he knows you!”

  Musenda offered his hand in greeting. “We do know each other, Binta. You surprise me, youngster. I did not think you would manage so long.”

  Arram smiled weakly. “Neither did I.”

  “I owe you my gratitude for amusing my niece and nephews,” Musenda said. “They have been telling me of the light you bring to this place.”

  Arram busied himself by taking some of the toys the children were offering him. “They’re too kind,” he told Musenda. “If I make them laugh, it’s when I drop things. Hitting myself on the head is a big favorite.” He smiled at a little boy who offered his stuffed elephant, and accepted it. “It’s good practice.” He began to send the first couple of toys spinning through the air. Musenda’s niece, Binta, stood by, offering up each new item for Arram to juggle as he let them rise and fall in the air.

  “I must go,” Musenda said quietly, understanding a loud voice would startle
Arram. “Only remember, I feel a debt to you for my family.”

  Moving gracefully, he made his way out of the crowded room.

  Arram looked down at the girl and her brothers as he changed the pattern of the toys he sent into the air. “He’s a nice man, your uncle.”

  Binta nodded. “He says someday he’ll live with us, but Ma says he can’t. Gladiators aren’t allowed to live with people.”

  It’s not right, Arram thought as he watched the children. Keeping a man from his family is not right. And why? So he can die in the arena for people to wager on? For people to applaud? That’s no life for anyone!

  His hands wobbled, and a rain of toys fell on his head. The children and the watching members of the staff applauded. Arram sighed and gathered the toys again. If Ozorne were emperor, he thought, he would do something about it. He shook his head and began to juggle again. There were too many princes ahead of Ozorne, and by all reports, they liked the gladiators and games just as they were.

  —

  He had been working at the infirmary for four days—or was it five?—when he heard an unusual stirring in the work area. Nazaam came bursting through the door, practically crackling with energy. A man in a naval uniform with a silver chain around his neck walked on her right; another who wore an expensive robe and drape walked on her left. Both shimmered from caps to boots with strong protective magic.

  “It is not as if you have been granted a choice in the matter, Master Nazaam,” the man in the robe and drape told her. “His Imperial Highness learned that a number of his sailors or their families are in these places, and he will see them.”

  “I cannot promise his safety,” Nazaam snapped. “Nor that of his minions.”