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 Arram 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 got 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