A/N: In honour of Tempests and Slaughter coming out, I decided to try my first Tortallan fanfic. We haven't gotten to Arram's escape from Carthak, so my imagination decided to fill in the gap. Until Tamora fills it herself, of course! I consider this to be an exercise in character creation, so it's done in snippets as opposed to a full-blown story. Enjoy my ramblings.

Peacocks and Saviours

Arram was so unbelievably tired. In his days studying at the imperial university, he had spent many a sleepless night. Often, he had been too absorbed in his reading to notice that the sun and set and risen again. Other times, he had been doggedly determined to locate a particular fact or complete a translation for Master Lindhall. But this time, the exhaustion that had set into his bones wasn't caused by lack of sleep. In fact, he had been sleeping for longer each passing day, but all the sleep in the world couldn't prevent the onset of starvation. The young man guessed that he hadn't eaten for three to four weeks, judging by the severity of his symptoms. For the first week, he had been able to count the days. But, as his lack of food continued, he tired more easily and his frequent naps made all the days run together. Truth be told, he had thought he would last longer than six weeks as a wanted man. For the past three days, he had lain in the shadows of an alley between two modest houses, too tired to move. Their eaves kept him shaded from the blazing sun and mostly hidden from those passing by on the road. Certain that no one would save a starving man half-hidden in shadow, Arram waited for the Black God to fetch him. The mage heard movement at the end of the alley. A few moment later, there was a hand resting lightly on his upper lip, feeling for breath.

"Still alive," a female voice murmured. The hands gently hoisted him up from under the armpits, shifting him to sit against one of the houses. They brushed his matted hair away from his face. "Can you open your eyes?" she asked softly.

Perhaps he was starting to become delirious. The simple question had sounded melodic, rising and falling ever so slightly as if it were part of a whispered song. Gathering his will, he forced his eyelids open. Two pools of dark emerald green were inches from his face, a pair of eyes that held a mixture of concern and curiosity in their depths. His throat was too parched to form words, so he simply watched as she examined him.

The young woman's eyebrows pulled together in a frown as she squinted her eyes slightly. She vanished from view for a moment and returned with a sheet of parchment in her hand.

Arram glimpsed it briefly as she brought it up beside his grimy face: his wanted poster. He closed his eyes in resignation. He had been found. Not even a black robe mage could escape the clutches of His Imperial Majesty. Great Goddess have mercy, he thought to the heavens. Perhaps she could convince Ozorne to make his death swift.

Arram came to with a sharp intake of breath. Listening, he realized he had been moved. There were no two-legger noises and he could hear the sound of running water nearby. The mage was lying on something much softer than a dirt alley. He was wrapped snugly in a bedroll, even though it was too short for his six-foot-five frame and only came halfway up his chest. There was movement nearby, and he found himself propped up into a sitting position against another warm body. A water skin was held to his lips.

"Drink. Slowly," the voice of the green-eyed woman said from behind him.

He did so without a second thought, feeling warm, sweetened water relieve some of the dryness in his throat and the hunger in his belly. It was all gone before he had had his fill and he was laid down on the bedroll again.

"No more or you'll just be sick," she said from somewhere above him." The melodic quality of her voice was pleasant to listen to. "Go back to sleep. I'll wake you later."

True to her word, she woke him for another helping of sweetened water, which he drank greedily. He continued to drink and rest with no clue how much time had passed. Soon enough, he was upgraded to a thin, coconut-flavoured soup. As she woke him for his third helping of soup, he managed to open his eyes without too much difficulty. "Who are you?" he croaked.

She was his age, possibly older than his seventeen years. Her pale blonde hair was straight, framing her face as she looked down at his prone form. Her skin was swarthy like his, but a few shades darker. Her nose, downturned at the tip, had been broken once, but the healer she had seen was good enough to leave only a small bump behind. Dark lips, shapely though a bit thin, led to a rounded chin and straight jawline. Her emerald eyes, set beneath softly arched brows, examined him carefully. "Your saviour," she answered shortly.

"I had deduced that much for myself. I was rather hoping for a name," the young man clarified.

She grinned mischievously at him. "I did the saving. You first."

He realized he had not imagined the song-like lilt of her voice. Everything she said was said with the whisper of a song.

"Arram Draper," he answered without thinking, intrigued by her way of speech.

The woman stared at him, dumbfounded.

His heart began to race. Had he just given his identity away? There is no way she did not already know, he thought frantically, she had my wanted poster. At that point, he realized she didn't look scared of harbouring a fugitive, and her dumbfounded expression held an edge of condescension rather than surprise.

"I can't believe you just said that," she said flatly, clearly unimpressed.

"From that, I surmise you already knew who I was," he retorted sharply. Her current smarter-than-thou attitude reminded him of some of his fellow classmates, who would dance around explanations so they could prolong their moment of superiority. "Asking questions you already know the answer to just makes you look the fool."

The woman shook her head. "I was pretty sure I knew who you were, but I didn't know until you gave your name."

"You held my wanted poster up next to me. It was not obvious enough then?"

She sighed heavily as if she had to explain something to him for the third time. "No. You were about to die of hunger, covered in dirt and sand, and you hadn't washed or shaved in weeks. You looked like the ghost of the man on the poster. If you hadn't given your real name, you could have made me believe you were someone else and been on your merry way."

Arram frowned, his irritation at her attitude driven from his mind. "Speaking of which, why am I not in Ozorne's custody yet? Were you waiting for identity confirmation before alerting His Imperial Majesty?"

The simple act of conversation was draining what little strength he had, and he was already taking long pauses between sentences to catch his breath.

The blonde noticed his fatigue and propped him up against herself, feeding him soup from a small iron pot as she answered, "No. Whether or not you were really Arram Draper, I wasn't going to tell the Emperor. He would order me killed the moment he was me."

He raised his eyebrows. "What did you do to incur his wrath?" he asked between sips.

"Do you remember the peacock that he bought? To celebrate the coming of spring?"

"Of course. He practically shouted its arrival from every street corner, the way he boasted about it every time he opened his mouth. Then of course, some uncouth harlot killed it a month later."

She snorted. "Is that what he's calling me now?"

He was so stunned he nearly choked on his soup. If he had had the strength to spin around and stare at her, he would have. "You killed his peacock?"

"It was barely enough to count as revenge, but it was the best I could do," she sighed. His meal finished, she set the small pot aside. "Welcome to your new home, Arram." The green-eyed woman remained behind him, propping him up so that he could look around.

He was in a tiny tent, made to house one. It was a simple structure, a few long, sturdy poles supporting tan oiled canvas that would keep both bright sun and pouring rain away. The bedroll on which he reclined had been set up on the diagonal, the only dimension that would allow a man as tall as himself to lie down in such a tiny space. By his feet, one of the door flaps was tied open, allowing the noon sun inside. To his right, he saw a large pack in the corner. It sat, deflated and empty, with its contents lying in a heap on the canvas floor. He saw mostly clothes, in rich greens, blues, oranges, and reds, made of all different kinds of fabric. Some had tiny brass disks hanging from their hems, to catch the light as the wearer moved. There were veils in the pile too, their materials ranging from cheap muslin to fine silk and light-as-air chiffon. Beside the clothes lay a Player's tools: six juggling balls, six wooden rods, and a deck of cards. He also spotted the water skin he had drunk from previously, and a few things for washing and bathing. A glazed pot was rather out of place, well-worn but closed, contents unknown. On his left were various dry foods: beans, lentils, rice, and small jars of simple spices. The edge of an aish flatbread stuck out the top of an oil cloth bag, and a single piece of salted fish hung from the pole that formed the ceiling of the tent. Next to the food was- "My pack!" he exclaimed, trying to reach for it, forgetting his frailty. His arm shifted half-heartedly in response to his brain's commands.

The woman laid him down gently and fetched the dirty bag. She tucked it in the crook of his arm, without him needing to ask. "I found three books and a robe in it. Was anything else supposed to be in there?"

"No," he answered, relieved. His books were safe. Plus, he wasn't in Ozorne's hands. He was luckier than he could have hoped. Thank you, Merciful Mother, he thought. With his mind at ease, he fell asleep.

When he woke next, his pack was still snug under his arm, and he desperately needed to relieve himself. Arram opened his mouth to call the emerald-eyed woman but stopped himself. "I still don't know your name," he said, finding he had the strength to look around a little.

The woman put aside her mending and got to her feet. "No, but there are other matters that need taking care of at the moment, aren't there?" With some difficulty, she arranged his lanky frame on her back and carried him outside, the same way a parent carried a tired toddler home at the end of the day.

Being borne on her back, he saw she was taller than he had realized. She stood somewhere near five-foot-ten, unusually tall, especially so for a woman. He wondered briefly whether she, also a person of unusual height, suffered mundane issues similar to his. The mage's thoughts moved on to the quiet strength her willowy body possessed. She was only slowed slightly by his weight and was barely breathing heavily despite the distance they had travelled.

"Can you stand?" she asked, stopping before a latrine.

Arram flushed red with embarrassment, realizing what was about to happen. He had the independence of a baby at the moment and he was going to be cleaned like one after he finished his business. "I think so," he muttered. He would rather try to stand and fail than admit defeat right away. She set him down, allowing him to lean against her. He was grateful that his legs held. Deftly, she helped him with what needed doing, with his face crimson the whole while.

Catching sight of this, she snorted. "Nothing I haven't seen before, Master Draper," she said lightly. "Who do you think was cleaning you up while you slept?"

He was too embarrassed to reply, not speaking again until he was safely clothed once more. "Could I stay outside for a while?"

"Sure," came the reply. When they reached the tent, she deposited him in front of the door flaps, leaving him propped up by the centre pole. "At least until the bugs come out."

The sun indicated that it was early evening. To the east, Arram saw the silhouette of Thak City. Between the city and their camping spot, he saw a smattering of tents. The further from the city, the fewer the tents and theirs was the furthest by a large margin. A branch of the Zekoi river meandered to the south, much narrower and slower moving than its portion in the capital. Their tent door faced north, away from the pounded dirt road that faded into the west, towards the nearest town. The rest of the landscape was nothing but dry, sandy dirt.

"We're about a two hour walk from the city," she told him as he took in his surroundings. "Water comes from the river, and I have some food stores. When we run low, I'll go get more."

"That is all well and good, but I still don't know your name."

She sat gracefully in front of him, blonde locks settling on her statuesque shoulders. "Oasis."

He looked at her skeptically. He'd never once met someone with a noun for a name. Whose parents were foolish enough to do that?

The woman laughed at the look. "Or Mirage. Haven't used that one for a while. Whatever works."

"I was not asking for a stage name," he said sourly, understanding.

She put her hands on the ground behind her, leaning back and surveying him. "What does it matter? What's in a name? It could be a stage name or a real name, but as long as I answer to it, it does what it needs to."

"You saved my life. I would like to call you by our real name," he said softly. "We are both fugitives. Neither of us is going to turn the other in." I hope, he added silently.

She smiled and shrugged, as if it didn't matter to her, but she would give a real name if he wanted one so badly. "Rana," she said finally.

"Rana," he repeated, feeling the syllables on his tongue. It wasn't a name he had heard before. "Last name?" he asked, examining her features, trying to pinpoint her origins. Rana wasn't a Carthaki name. The blonde hair said Scanran for certain, but her swarthiness said the opposite.

She shook her head. "Players don't keep their last names. We choose our family. No point in keeping the name of the old one."

"Nice to meet you, Rana." Arram inclined his head towards her, the closest he could come to bowing at the moment. "Thank you for saving my life. I am grateful beyond measure and indebted to you."

A smile spread across her face. "You're welcome. I hope you'll repay your debt in full. Eventually." Rana waved a hand, brushing away the topic. "Forget that for now. You need a new name."

"What?" he frowned.

She shook her head at his naiveté. "I can hardly go around calling you Arram Draper, can I? We'd both be dead in a hurry. So, you need a new name."

"Other names don't suit me," he mumbled. He remembered his fruitless attempts to come up with a mage name. Everything he thought of sounded utterly ridiculous. "I have tried."

She leaned forward, putting her chin in her hand. She bit her bottom lip pensively, studying him with her dark green gaze. "It'll be 'Numair' then. It means panther," she supplied.

He laughed. "An uncoordinated klutz like me, assuming the name of a graceful animal like that?"

"You don't have to be anything like your name," she pointed out, "you just have to like how it sounds." She shrugged. "I'm calling you Numair until you come up with something you like better."

With a pang, he thought of Varice who was just as willful, just as commanding, but caring all the same. Rana interrupted his thoughts.

"It's time to get inside anyway, before the bugs make a meal of us." She collected him and brought him inside, laying him on the bedroll once more and tying the door flap shut. She fed him another helping of coconut soup for dinner.

"What language is 'Numair' from?" he asked after downing the last of the soup. He had rooted through all the foreign languages he was familiar with, both ancient and modern, and come up with nothing.

"Sirajit."

Ozorne's deep-seated hatred for the Sirajit meant he and Varice had both given the subject of Siraj a wide berth, including Arram avoiding learning the language. He blinked, making the connection. "You are Sirajit?" Arram had never seen anyone but a Scanran with blonde hair.

Her eyes turned hard and her body tensed. "Is that a problem," she said darkly. More statement than question.

"N-no," he stammered quickly. He'd never shared or understood Ozorne's prejudices. Clearly, Rana was no stranger to the Carthakis' general animosity towards her people. "I am just surprised that your hair is blonde. I thought that was a Scanran trait."

Rana studied him for a moment longer, then relaxed, her body settling into an easy position once more. "Ignore the hair, then you'll see it."

He watched as she picked up her mending from earlier and bent over the task, intent on finishing before the daylight filtering through the tent canvas faded completely. He studied her face as she worked. Her skin, darker than his, spoke of a birthplace father to the south, where he knew Siraj to be. The downturned tip of her nose was known as a southerner trait, as were her dark lips. Rana's emerald eyes breathed truth into an entry he had once read in a travelling bard's journal while researching the relationship between opals and magic: the Sirajit all had gemstone eyes. Vibrant irises of all colours, ranging from pale icy grey that evoked diamonds to the deep black of opals that brought Siraj its fame.

Rana looked up. "See it yet?" she smiled.

Arram quickly looked away. It is rude to stare, he chided himself. Never mind the fact that her smile was oddly captivating. "I can see some traits that support your claim," he said hurriedly as he regained his composure.

"You don't have to speak like a scholar anymore," she teased. "It would be best if you didn't. You'll stand out too much among all us common folk." She knotted the thread and cut it with her teeth, mending done.

"I was told I needed to sound more scholarly by my own father," he snorted, recalling one of his family's rare visits to Carthak. "What was the point of paying exorbitant amounts of tuition if you could not tell from my mannerisms that I attended the most prestigious university between the Copper Isles and the Roof of the World?"

Rana stared at him blankly. "That's exactly the kind of talk that'll get you killed. And I don't know."

"You don't know what?"

"The answer to your question."

The corner of his mouth quirked upward. "It does not matter, it was rhetorical."

She dropped her head into her hands, rubbing her temples. "That's got to be the fiftieth word out of your mouth that I don't understand," she groaned.

"That many?" He was stunned. She had been keeping up with the conversation remarkably well for missing the meaning of so many words.

"Alright, maybe more like twenty-five. Either way, a fair few," she huffed, glaring at him like it was his fault.

He supposed, in a way, it was. She was a common Player. It was highly unlikely she would understand all of his extensive vocabulary, which made even nobles twist their faces in confusion at times. "Which words?" the young man asked, genuinely curious.

"Rheti-whatsit," she answered, still rubbing one of her temples.

"Rhetorical," he supplied, "in the previous case, referring to a rhetorical question. A question asked to make a statement rather than to elicit information."

Her emerald eyes were even more confused than before. "Eli-what now?"

"Elicit. To..." he paused. His word of choice would have been 'evoke', but he got the feeling that she might need the definition of 'evoke' as well. "To draw out a response from someone in reaction to one's own actions. For example, say I wanted to know how and why you killed Ozorne's peacock. I could... say it was cruel to kill an innocent bird and see if you would... accidentally tell me your reasons while trying to defend yourself." He had paused to choose simpler phrases than 'condemn the slaughter of menagerie treasures' and 'inadvertently reveal your motives'. Breaking this habit was going to be more difficult than he thought.

She nodded slowly, seeming to understand. "So, a rhetorical question is a question you don't really want the answer to," Rana ventured, putting his two definitions together.

"Yes."

The blonde threw her hands up in the air. "Then why didn't you just say that?" she cried, exasperated.

"I was trying to," Arram said weakly. "Wait a minute. Ozorne is after you because you killed his peacock. You should be using a name other than Rana."

"He doesn't know me as Rana."

"Of course!" he realized. She had given him three different names in a heartbeat. She probably had more. "You gave him a stage name."

Rana tilted her head slightly. "Well, we never actually met." she said vaguely.

"What other words did you not understand?" he asked eagerly, the academic in him always happy to educate another. He learned quickly that Rana had a remarkably good memory for what had been said. She only had to think for a moment to recall words she hadn't understood, beginning their impromptu vocabulary lesson with prestigious, mannerism, tuition, and exorbitant. Arram chose his definitions carefully, using only simple terms. Even so, when she rephrased his explanations to be sure of her understanding, she still made him sound convoluted in comparison.

Half an hour later, the young woman said, "That's it."

He raised an eyebrow. "You said there were twenty-five words you did not understand. That was only ten, including rhetorical and elicit."

She shrugged. "I didn't count."

"The first estimate you gave was fifty!" The gathering darkness of twilight was hiding the annoyance on his face, but his voice betrayed him. "Fifty is a far cry from ten."

"Players aren't the type to do things exactly," she said lightly, apparently unfazed by his irritation towards her.

"What about 'uncouth harlot'?" he tried. That wasn't a common phrase.

Rana snorted as she lay down beside him." No, I know what that means. I hear it sometimes as a bed warmer. Can't say they're wrong, I suppose." She sounded amused.

He was once again glad for the darkness hiding the dark flush on his cheeks. She was incredibly brazen compared to the company he used to keep. Her disregard for personal space and unabashed disclosure of her second profession had caught him off guard.

She saved him from having to reply, saying "Goodnight, Numair," and rolling onto her side to fall asleep.

As the sounds of the desert's nocturnal creatures came to life around him, Arram mulled over his current situation. He was alive, not in Ozorne's dungeons, and in very close proximity to some very unexpected company. Rana, no last name: Player and prostitute.