Tempests and Slaughter

by Tamora Pierce

  Preet ran her beak under Cosmas’s beard and chirred in content.

  “Now, the instructions for how you are to travel are in your invitations,” Cosmas told them. “I know you will do us credit. Don’t forget the fifth chapter in your texts for tomorrow.”

  As if the university clocks were set inside his head, the bells for the change of class began to ring. Once Preet had flown back to Arram’s shoulder, Cosmas linked his hands over his round belly and closed his eyes for his morning nap.

  Arram waited until they were outside before he cried, “A party with the princess!”

  Varice slung her arm around his waist. “Please don’t panic yet,” she begged. “I’ll let you know when to panic.”

  —

  When they arrived at the Water Pavilion, the princess greeted them with far more enthusiasm than they had ever seen her demonstrate. She even rose from her chair and walked over to them, smiling. “No formalities!” she said as she raised Arram from his bow and Varice from her curtsy. “My beloved son’s guard told me how you rescued him from that Sirajit dog’s insult!” She gripped Arram by the shoulders. “You in particular, dear boy.” She kissed him on both cheeks. “I know his household will be stronger with both of you there.” She took Varice’s hand in one of hers as she kept one on Arram’s shoulder. To Varice she said, “Those restoring soups and perfumes you make have done wonders for my health, my dear. Where would he be without both of you?”

  “Where would I be, indeed?” Ozorne murmured in Arram’s ear as he came up beside him.

  “But Your Highness, truly the man wasn’t—” Arram began.

  Varice stepped lightly on his foot. Ozorne gripped his wrist, saying “Don’t” in his ear. In any event, the princess had not heard Arram’s attempt to say the peddler had not meant any insult. She was asking Varice if she knew any perfumes to protect the wearer from poisons.

  “Anything that gets her to believe we shouldn’t be parted is a good thing,” Ozorne murmured when he was certain his mother wasn’t listening. “Otherwise she’ll try to bind me to a pair of fashionable stiff-necks who will always report to her. And we’re not sure that lout wasn’t going for me. Now, you and Varice sit here, on my left, until we go to supper. You both look very fine.”

  “Varice looks very fine,” Arram said. “I look presentable.”

  Their friend was lovely in a Northern-style pink silk gown embroidered down the front in silver Carthaki designs. A sheer pink silk veil was fixed to her hair with pins capped with tiny silver rosebuds, and she wore silver slippers. Compared to her, Arram was more somber in a dark gray tunic, and a dark blue coat and hose. Only when he turned under the lamps did onlookers see glints of silver woven into the garments, reminding him, at least, of a late-night sky.

  Ozorne outshone them both, of course, in a bronze tunic and silver hose. The beads in his dark hair were silver and gold; his nails were gold; his bracelets were jeweled gold and silver; and his toe rings were gold and silver. Since he had become the second heir, his allowance had increased, which meant his wardrobe had grown more outrageous. Only his eye makeup was not gold or silver: instead he had put blacking on both sets of lids, so the orbs shone out of darkness.

  “You look…nice,” Arram ventured. He couldn’t think of any better remark.

  “Oh, it’s fun to play,” Ozorne said, regarding the other guests. “They’ve come to see if I’ll make trouble for Mikrom, you know. None of these people understand how a fellow would rather be a mage than lounge on a throne and scheme.”

  “Just tell them,” Arram suggested.

  Ozorne chuckled. “It doesn’t work that way. Chioké taught me—if you say something, they’re certain it’s the opposite. They can take the most innocent event and turn it into conspiracy.” He glanced at his mother, who was introducing Varice to a young nobleman. “She is in her element—Mother, not Varice,” he added hurriedly. “Ah! There’s Chioké. Excuse me for a moment?”

  Arram watched Ozorne go to his mentor, nodding and smiling to guests who bowed or curtsied as he passed. Complain about court society as he might, Arram suspected that Ozorne had a wonderful time at events like these. He might be an outsider at the university, a peculiar student who took too many classes with masters, but here he was a master of sorts.

  Arram was talking to Varice shortly afterward when she glanced over his shoulder and said, “Ah.” She gave her skirts a quick shake.

  Arram looked to see what had attracted her interest. One of the household, a man in the long tunic of an imperial official, stood at the doorway. He took a deep breath and announced, “His Imperial Majesty, Mesaraz Avevin Tasikhe, Bright Sun of the Carthaki Empire, God-King of Amar and Apal…”

  Frantic, Arram looked for a place to fade away. Chioké, who had appeared suddenly, gripped his arm. “Do not hide from the emperor, boy. Stay where you are and smile, understand?”

  Arram nodded. His heart was pounding uncomfortably in his chest. Why did Ozorne and Varice have to like this sort of thing? Why couldn’t they enjoy quiet evenings in the libraries or tending the animals?

  Chioké talked to him about this and that, but Arram barely heard what the older man said. He watched the emperor walk through the room, stopping to talk to this noble or that mage, but always setting a course for the platform where the tall chairs waited for him, the princess, and Ozorne. Behind him came his mage, a tall white man with the coloring of a Scanran. He was said to be fearsome when it came to protective magics, with the ability to turn an attacker to ash with a flick of the hand. His pale gray eyes were expressionless as they took in the faces around the room. There were also several guards in imperial colors, and a handful of slaves.

  Now the emperor was talking to Ozorne, who drew Varice forward. Mesaraz smiled at her as she curtsied. When she straightened, he put his fingers under her chin and raised her face as he asked her something. She gave him her sparkliest smile and replied.

  “There are advantages to being a pretty girl,” Chioké murmured.

  “Disadvantages, too,” Arram replied softly. “People think she’s stupid because she’s pretty.”

  “And she is not stupid.” Something about the way Chioké said it made Arram bristle.

  “No one stupid could have made those potions for the princess,” he pointed out.

  “It could be Her Highness’s ills are of her own imagining, and her imagining has now told her that the girl’s kitchen witchery has mended them,” Chioké replied coolly.

  “Then why does she study on the same level as Ozorne and me?” Arram was definitely starting to dislike this man.

  “There you have a point. Stand straight. He is coming.”

  The emperor was indeed coming toward them, Ozorne on his left, his mage on his right. Arram and Chioké bowed low.

  “Master Chioké, it is good to see you.” Mesaraz’s voice was deep and smooth in this kind of gathering, his eyes steady and kind. “Our nephew tells me that you keep him busy at his studies. We hope you make sure he pursues law and diplomacy as well as magic!”

  “Be certain that I do, Your Imperial Majesty,” Chioké replied with a smile. “His Highness is up to the additional work.” He winked at Ozorne, whose own smile was wry.

  “And, young Arram, you have not brought your bird to us,” Mesaraz remarked. “I had hoped to see her again.”

  “Um, Your Royal Majesty, it seems she has developed a—a taste for mead,” Arram said hurriedly. “I don’t—don’t dare bring her to parties.” He bowed a second time, in case the first one hadn’t taken.

  Those close enough to hear chuckled, including the emperor. He said, “Chioké tells us that you can throw fire three hundred yards, young man.”

  “B-by mistake, Your Imperial Highness,” Arram explained. He was confused when the older men laughed again.

  “By Mithros, we should like to see how far you can throw it on purpose,” the emperor joked.

  “Let us find a place large enough, first,” the court mage said drily. �
��The arena, perhaps.”

  Arram shuddered.

  “Once his control improves,” Chioké said. “I should hate for anything to happen to the arena.”

  “Indeed?” The emperor looked Arram over, his eyes sharp. “We understand you are also able to walk on the bottom of the river.”

  Arram gulped. “My teacher, M-master Sebo, taught me how, Your Imperial Majesty. It’s part of water magic training. She also t-taught me to be careful of the hippos and crocodiles.”

  The older mages chuckled again. Arram felt his cheeks getting warm. He hadn’t come here as entertainment, after all.

  The emperor had not laughed. “We believe there are many interesting things to be found on the river bottom.”

  Was this a test? Did the emperor know about Faziy?

  Whatever these people thought about his cursed stammer and his age, he was not a fool. He would not play jester for them, and he would not fall into any traps.

  He shrugged and caught a glare from Chioké. Apparently it was forbidden to shrug in front of the emperor. “I found a metal figure of a man with wings and claws for feet the first time I walked on the river bottom. It was a Stormwing, from the time before the banishment of the immortals.” He smiled. “I prefer to study the living animals and fish I see there. The crocodiles and hippos don’t seem to mind me anymore.”

  The emperor returned his smile. “We hear you defended our nephew in the market.” He rested a hand on Ozorne’s shoulder.

  Arram decided another shrug might get him an actual beating instead of a scolding when he got home. “It wasn’t necessary, Your Imperial Majesty. Ozorne is very good at defending himself.”

  “This is a good thing to know,” the emperor said. He glanced at the princess, who was still standing, still waiting to greet him. “We must join our hostess. We look forward to seeing you again, Arram Draper. You are an interesting lad.”

  The emperor and his attendants moved on, while Chioké turned on Arram. “You do not talk to the emperor as if he were an instructor at the Lower Academy, and you do not shrug like a country lout!”

  Ozorne put his hand on Chioké’s arm. “Master, it’s fine. Uncle was amused as much as anything. Come, let’s find your seat. The entertainment’s about to begin.”

  Chioké smiled at Ozorne. “Don’t worry, Your Highness—your mother wishes me to stay near her. I think you wish to sit with your friends, do you not?” He walked over to the seat that awaited him just behind the princess’s elbow.

  Ozorne and Arram wound through the crowd until they reached their own seats near the princess. Varice was already there. The moment she saw them she began to pour dark purple liquid into crystal glasses.

  “Don’t worry,” she told Arram when he regarded the glasses with alarm. “I told the slave that wine made you a little odd. She brought us grape juice.”

  “You’re so strict,” he grumbled as he took his seat.

  The crowd moved back from the center of the floor, where a large ebony square was laid into the rich mahogany. The entertainment was a series of tumblers, dancers, and finally three pairs of gladiators who battled with padded weapons. Arram took an interest in the combats only when he saw the weapons were relatively harmless. Varice and Ozorne, of course, took more than an interest, wagering with their neighbors.

  They did not do as well as they had hoped on the third match, when Musenda came out with a fellow gladiator who was nearly as big as he was. By now Musenda was becoming a favorite. Even Arram had noticed his image on posters in the city. No one would bet against him—no one near the imperial seats, at least.

  The struggle was a harsh one, padded weapons or no. It soon became plain that Musenda’s opponent—Arram hadn’t caught his name—was determined to win. He had the bigger man bent backward, his arm around Musenda’s neck, and his free fingers going for Musenda’s eyes. That was when Musenda grabbed the arm around his neck with both hands and snapped forward with a roar of fury. Arram heard the distinctive crack of bone as his friend’s opponent soared over his head, flipping, to land on his back. Since Musenda had not let go, the next sound Arram identified was the soft crunch of a shoulder dislocating. He had heard both noises when Ramasu assigned him to the butchers for a week, to help them dismember beeves and sheep.

  Arram rose, about to help block the pain, but Ozorne pulled him back. Slaves came forward to carry the wounded man away, while Musenda stood and accepted the cheers—as well as the thrown purses and flowers—of the crowd. Arram cringed. He had almost forgotten where he was and worked magic in the imperial presence.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled to his friends.

  “Why?” Ozorne asked. “I did it once—just a little bird illusion, but Mother spanked me till I ate my meals standing up for a week. You stopped yourself!”

  A large rose tumbled to the table. Arram looked up, startled, and saw Musenda was grinning wickedly at him. He grinned back and offered the rose to Varice. “Pretend it’s for you, or people will think there’s something between me and him,” he whispered.

  She picked up the rose and sniffed it. “Well, it would explain why you can’t hold on to a girl more than a month or two,” she teased. She blew Musenda a kiss, and the crowd roared its approval. He bowed to her and left the arena, waving to those who applauded him.

  And they’d cheer just as loud if his opponent had won, Arram thought bitterly.

  The autumn term settled back into routine, with only the threat of examinations and the Midwinter celebrations to disturb Arram’s peace of mind. His studies in healing expanded to include healing wounds, a process he wasn’t certain he liked. He listed it as his second-to-last favorite, the worst task being lancing and cleaning boils. It always took some time for the stink to clear his nose. His favorite was diagnosing a patient’s illness, something he had gotten very good at with the use of Ramasu’s spells,

  One Saturday morning after a night at the infirmary he went to the market where good secondhand shirts were reasonably priced. The term’s classes were hard on his clothes: these days he could go through five clean shirts a day. He reminded himself to give the school laundry women good-luck stones for Midwinter, since they did so much work for him. He was deciding on which stones to give them when Preet crashed into his chest.

  “Preet!” he cried. “I almost killed you, silly bird! What were you thinking?”

  Rising into the air, she gripped a lock of his hair in her claws and pulled him down an unfamiliar alley. Much to his surprise, they emerged at a side entrance of the cemetery dedicated to the Great Mother in her guise of the Crone. Devout women of the university were buried here.

  A hundred yards in, a group of women gathered around a funeral pyre. Arram halted beside a tree, not wanting to disturb them, no matter how insistent Preet was. Then one of the women looked up and drew back her headscarf.

  It was Sebo. She tapped her neighbor, who turned: it was Dagani. Arram also recognized the girl who had lived with Faziy. A couple of the other women were senior students and masters. One of them wore the black robe and torch insignia of a Daughter of the Temple. She carried a burning torch in her hand.

  Sebo beckoned Arram forward. He hesitated, not sure if he was supposed to intrude on a women’s rite. Sebo beckoned again and scowled. In the distance, thunder rolled. The breeze twisted around, blowing full in Arram’s face. The stink of rot filled his nose. Preet landed on his shoulder and bit his ear. Wincing, Arram forced himself to walk to the pyre.

  As he left the trees, a group of men walked out of the temple: Cosmas, Yadeen, Ramasu, and Chioké. Each carried cypress boughs to cleanse the dead. At the pyre, they placed their branches on the linen-wrapped corpse, covering it from top to toe. Arram nearly panicked, having no offering, until he remembered the vial of meadowsweet essence in his healer’s kit. He used it to calm people who were upset. Here it would bring his wishes for peace to this dead woman.

  Placing the bottle on the corpse’s chest, he saw why Preet had brought him here. Pinned on the li
nen where the body’s neck would be was a familiar jade-and-silver necklace. This was Faziy’s funeral.

  The Daughter bowed to a short figure all in black who now joined them. A servant of the Black God of Death, the newcomer spoke the hopes of the faithful that Faziy would be remade in the Peaceful Realms, free of pain and sorrow. As she talked of the god’s kindness, she was forced to raise her voice. The storm was rolling in fast, lightning flashing ahead of it. Quickly the Daughter of the Temple lit the four corners of the funeral pyre. Once it was blazing, the witnesses retreated to the temple—all but Arram.

  Arram shook his head as Cosmas and Yadeen tried to tow him inside. Instead he locked his eyes on the boiling clouds above.

  The lightning snakes came. They twined themselves around the wood and the dead woman, weaving everything together into one blazing heap. It shrank into a hard, tight knot—

  And was gone, wood, body, and bone.

  The Daughter seemed to be angry with Yadeen. Arram caught some of her words: “snakes,” “never, never,” and “never.” Arram let the master yell and looked for Preet. She had tucked herself under the temple’s eaves, where she, too, seemed to screech “never, never” and “never.”

  Finally Arram could hear properly. He looked at Cosmas. “Who killed her?” he asked. “We’re a citadel of magecraft—surely we know who did this. Why didn’t you bury her before? You thought you could work out who killed her. You know, don’t you?”

  “If he were my student,” Chioké said, “I would lock him in a magic-less room on bread and water for a week.”

  Arram turned to scowl at Chioké. He was about to tell Ozorne’s master that no one had asked for his opinion, when three sets of invisible hands clapped over his mouth. “I shall deal with my students—and my instructors—as I see fit,” Cosmas said mildly. “Arram was very fond of Faziy.”

  “He needs schooling in courtesy if he is to strut at court,” Chioké retorted. “And so I shall tell my student. An ill-bred lout does his prince, and his masters, little good.”

  Sebo stood next to Cosmas as Chioké gathered several of his friends and left the temple. “He gets more troublesome every full moon, Cosmas,” she remarked. “Perhaps you should send him on an exchange to the City of the Gods. He needs to cool down, and that’s the perfect place.”