Tamora Pierce - Tempests and Slaughter

The afternoon was fun once they finished the dull work of choosing cloth, being measured, and bespeaking new clothes at Varice’s favourite tailor. They prowled the booksellers, finding more than a few volumes they could not do without, ogled the jewellery sellers’ booths, watched jugglers, and attended the latest play.

After a wonderful supper they were on their way out of the market when Arram saw a pastry seller’s cart and halted. ‘I have to do it,’ he said, digging a coin from his depleted purse. ‘He has tassen pastries, those three-cornered ones? Do you want tassen to take back with you? He has poppy, and it looks like apricot—’

Ozorne’s hand clamped on his arm. ‘Don’t,’ he said fiercely. ‘Look at that seller – the blue headcloth, and the star pendant. He’s a filthy Sirajit. He probably put dung in them, or piss. We don’t buy from Sirajit pigs.’

Arram didn’t protest. By now he had learned that Ozorne could not be shaken from his suspicion of anyone he thought was Sirajit. Arram only gave the pastry cart a yearning look as Ozorne pulled him away. Passing, he could see the vendor stood straight, holding on to his pride in the face of the students’ snub.

Once they reached the university, Ozorne stalked off, leaving Arram to escort Varice to her room. At her door she told him, ‘Don’t do that again, not if you can help it. You can see how it upsets him.’

‘I didn’t even know those cakes are Sirajit things,’ Arram protested. ‘Mother bought them all the time. This was the first I’ve seen them since I came here. Of course I won’t upset Ozorne, but the poppy seed ones are so good.’

Varice grinned. ‘I love the apricot ones. I tell you what – I’ll ask one of the cooks to get some, and we’ll just hide them from Ozorne.’

Arram gave her a coin large enough to buy a number of pastries. ‘You are wonderful, Varice!’ he told her gratefully.

‘I know,’ she replied, twirling before she entered her dormitory.

Arram began the walk to his room, thinking about what a good friend Varice was. It wasn’t long before, to his dismay, his member added its opinion, if not of his pretty friend, then of girls in general. Fortunately, his shopping satchel covered the bulge in his breeches, and the inconvenience shrank by the time he reached his room.

Two days later he and Ozorne went star watching with permission from the housekeeper. They lay head to head on the stretch of green behind the menagerie buildings, where most torchlight didn’t reach.

‘I saw the strangest thing the other day,’ Arram began. ‘This fellow was at his desk, and his – his …’ This was his best friend, and he couldn’t even say the word. ‘Below his belt. His, um, manhood, got … large. He didn’t even have his hands there.’

Ozorne moaned. ‘Oh, that,’ he said with amusement and despair. ‘But – just a moment. Didn’t you have the talk, the one they give to the twelve-year-olds …? No, wait, that won’t be until the autumn term.’

He fell silent for a short while until Arram said impatiently, ‘Ozorne, what talk?’

His friend shook his head. ‘I suppose … Well. They teach this to the twelve-year-olds when autumn term begins. You’ll love it; everyone makes noise and they won’t sit still … Really, you’d think our clever instructors would know that if you were so far ahead on everything else you might be far ahead on this! Sometimes these mages aren’t practical, have you noticed?’

‘Why? I’m not very practical,’ Arram reminded his friend.

‘Very true. Listen, then. This fellow – the thing with his member happens to most of us eventually. We could be looking at dirt and it will happen, or test questions, or things that have nothing to do with canoodling. Mother had our healer talk to me about’ – he made his voice deeper – ‘Becoming a Man the last time I was home. We start to get wet spots on our sheets or loincloths, too.’

‘Wet spots?’ Arram asked, horrified. He hadn’t wet the bed since he was a baby!

‘Because we have sex dreams,’ Ozorne explained. ‘Our members practise for the real thing. That has to be a gift from the gods, because bedding someone is all adults who aren’t mages talk about. The liquid, that’s what makes babies when it’s put in a woman.’

‘Why is life so complicated?’ Arram whispered.

‘Oh, don’t fuss. We’ll get to try it with a lover eventually – Look! A shooting star!’

Arram watched the stars fall, awed, wondering which god was sending a fiery love letter to another god, or even to a mortal. It happened sometimes: he’d read enough stories about it. A burst of stars passed over, drawing sighs of wonder from both lads.

They were sharing a bottle of grape juice when a group of students Ozorne’s age walked by. One of them looked towards the two boys and said something that made the others laugh, before they wandered on.

Arram glanced up and noticed his friend’s closed look and clenched fists. Hearing the ugly thing the older boy had said, Arram murmured, ‘The highest mark that one will get is his certificate in tree worm magic.’

Ozorne snorted. ‘Is that meant to console me?’

Arram assumed his most innocent tone. ‘Don’t you like tree worms?’

The prince looked at him. ‘One day they’ll pay for that.’ He took a drink from a flask he’d kept tucked away and offered it to Arram. ‘It’s only elderberry wine. My aunt married in Galla, and she sends casks of the stuff to my mother for ailments.’

Not wanting to seem rude, Arram tried a sip and grimaced. He handed the bottle back. ‘You know they advise us not to drink or use drugs that affect our thinking. Our Gifts.’

‘Elderberry isn’t strong! I just like the taste – Look, are you going to turn into a dull dog?’ Ozorne shifted onto his side to glare at Arram, who swiftly denied any possibility that he would get boring. Finally Ozorne waved him silent and asked, ‘So did you want to ask something?’

Arram took a breath and hoped his friend wouldn’t get angry again. ‘Why do some people call you the leftover prince? I don’t mean to upset you, but I’d like to know.’

Ozorne sat up, sighing. ‘Oh, that stupid thing. When I was small, apparently I told strangers I would be emperor someday. First my father heard. He said there were plenty of princes ahead of me. Then the emperor found out.’ Ozorne smiled grimly. ‘He sat me on his lap before all the court and pointed out every prince ahead of me in the line of succession.’

Arram frowned. ‘That wasn’t very kind.’

Ozorne shrugged. ‘It was honest. He said with so many heirs available, I was just a leftover.’

Arram remembered something from history class. ‘But there aren’t seven heirs, are there? One dead of a heart attack, one of the Sweating Sickness, your father …’

Ozorne took another drink of the wine. ‘My father. Someday I will build a statue to his name and place it in the Square of Heroes, at the palace. You’ll see.’

‘I believe you,’ Arram told him firmly. He believed Ozorne could do anything. His friend had spirit. His eyes had fire when he spoke.

Ozorne gripped Arram’s shoulder. ‘We’ll show them all, won’t we? Oh, look! Here comes a whole storm of stars! It’s the gods. They’re telling us we’ll succeed!’

After lunch the first day of the summer term, Arram found that he was keeping pace with Ozorne as he hurried to class. Varice, too, was trying to keep up.

‘Where are you off to?’ he asked his friends. They were close to the end of one of the open-sided galleries, next to a garden full of pungent herbs that practically threw their scent into the students’ faces.