“Don’t underestimate our enemies.” Yari’s voice shook. “They may know as much as we do. Or more.”
Did Hezram know more than Yari?
Bal jumped in front of Awa before she could ask. “Take me with you to Smokeland?” Bal knew what Awa wanted before Awa did.
“If I’m able, yes,” Awa replied.
Yari hugged them to vie’s heart. “Of course you’ll be able.” Yari often acted like the sentimental Elders from carnival tales. Awa and Bal took secret pleasure in this. Every Sprite hoped griots would spin epics from their adventures, but Awa and Bal had an advantage. Yari was griot for all the Green Elder clans, the griot of griots, what Empire citizens called a walking library and Lahesh called a bridge, one foot in yesterday, the other in tomorrow.
Vie’s tales were renowned in the floating cities, around the Golden Gulf, across the Arkhysian Empire and beyond where the maps ran out. Yari knew something about everything or at least more than most griots. Vie released Awa and Bal and smiled. “You’ll travel together many times, to every region of your hearts.”
“Really?” Bal asked. “You see this?”
“Yes.” Yari’s eyes filled with tears. “You shall make a new world.”
Yari always said, Each day, every one of us makes the world new. New wasn’t necessarily good, yet Awa felt certain that, despite experiencing many, many worlds, Yari looked forward to the one she and Bal would make.
16
Pirate Living
Djola’s first weeks at sea were a blur. He was heart and stomach sick. Elephants trumpeted in his dreams, chastising him for poison sand blowing everywhere. He woke each morning not believing in the pirate ship that rocked under him or in the scoundrels who raided merchant ships and villages or in the story a griot might tell on the Master of Poison’s defeat at Council.
He should have gone with Samina and the children to Kyrie’s mountain. Bal loved waterfalls, Tessa the mango groves. Quint was happy anywhere they were all together. But the poison desert would chase them wherever they ran. To save them, he had to master Xhalan Xhala and conjure an antidote to poison sand.
Djola was an honored prisoner on the pirate flagship, a converted slaver with a large galley and several decks, ideal for Captain Pezarrat, his commanders, and their captives. Still, the food was disgusting—wormy meat, moldy bread, and sour brew. Djola threw up a lot and got into fights.
A northlander claimed giving up the old ways for a pirate life was better than being a corrupt master and chopping down the world to warm the emperor’s ass. Djola broke his arm and ribs, and almost choked him to death. Luckily the northlander pleaded for his life in Anawanama before passing out. Djola pulled trembling hands from the fellow’s neck. He put an ear to cracked lips and was relieved at the rasp of breath.
He shook the man and whispered, “The Master of Grain hid behind Lahesh masks and let guards drag me off. I persuaded Zizi to let savage Grain sit at the stone-wood table. I halted the Empire’s assault on Grain’s precious northland.” Rage made him wheeze. “Zizi owes me his life, many times over. Exile? A pirate life?”
The barely conscious pirate moaned. He had dark skin and pale eyes like Grain. Djola dragged him to sick bay, set the arm, and wrapped the ribs. Nobody fought with Djola after that. He moved into sick bay, ate his meals there, and concocted Lahesh potions to calm his spirit. The old healer was grateful if Djola set a bone or shared a pain-killing brew. Wounded men wept in his arms, grateful too, for a cool rag at their necks or a hand to hold as they faced death.
At night, Djola burned tree-oil lamps and spent uninterrupted hours reading books and redrawing ancient maps. He charted routes along the inland waterway for Captain Pezarrat, always steering the fleet to places Green Elders might have hidden sacred books. He collected tales of void-storms devastating farms, villages, and forests. Searching for a pattern in a chaos of details was torture. Patience eluded him.
Four months gone since Djola sat at Council, almost five, and the sun was setting on a barbarian thief-lord village. The library at the beach was orange fire. Clouds of soot obscured other buildings. Djola had to persuade Pezarrat not to burn libraries or wise men. What could he learn from bone and ash?
The pirate fleet raced from the Golden Gulf to open sea. It listed so far starboard he feared it would capsize. The steer-man maneuvered into the wave just so, and the ship righted itself. The storm swell had seasoned pirates vomiting. Samina had hidden a sachet in his Aido bag: lavender, jasmine, and raintree blossoms from Smokeland. Inhaling her medicine steadied him.
Twenty raggedy vessels bobbed in unruly waves around the flagship. The hulls looked thrown together from shipwrecks and plundered docks. Patchwork sails were tucked away from the coming storm around driftwood masts. The rigging seemed frayed, chaotic. Too often foes thought one more storm would sink the pirate derelicts. Illusion. Pezarrat’s fleet masqueraded as ramshackle yet Azizi had exiled Djola to the rogue with the sturdiest, fastest vessels. Merchant-patrols could never catch them.
A warship faster than storm clouds loomed on the port side. Djola made out the catapults and spark-torch weapons of the Empire Patrol, peacekeepers who’d condemn a pirate raid. Blades glinted in the last sunbeams. Archers crouched in the rigging. The Empire Patrol could ram through Pezarrat’s rogue fleet, blasting boats with spark torches. Only Patrols had pirate speed and floating-city weapons. Queen Urzula saw to that.
The Patrol would attack the flagship first. Djola was unsure which side to fight on. As he pulled a knife from his boot, his hands shook. A warrior no more, he’d lost the taste, the will for killing. The Empire ship breezed by. Archers and spear-carriers waved as they pulled alongside the rig riding lowest in the sea. Someone played jaunty notes on a barbarian flute. Planks thunked the decks and joined the ships. A pirate crew lugged booty into the Patrol’s hold. A bribe. Going in Azizi’s coffers, no doubt.
Djola gagged. He’d come on deck to study the storm and clear his mind. That wasn’t working. He hurried back to sick bay, a dark den, barely taller than he was. The old healer—whose name Djola kept forgetting—lit tree-oil lamps that hung from mismatched beams. Swinging lights made eerie shadows dance along the hull. The old man was thin as a ghost, had three teeth, and five scraggly gray hairs. He looked ready to fade into the death lands, but was never seasick and never complained if Djola abandoned him to watch the sun set or a storm rise. Singing a barbarian ditty, the old healer trudged among bodies stuffed in bunks, slung in hammocks, and sliding on a lumpy wood floor. Djola had survived grisly battles, yet, to his surprise, these broken bodies made him as shaky as Azizi. He flexed twitching hands. Tremors persisted as he cleaned and dressed a knife wound.
“Pezarrat bribes Empire Patrol boats,” Djola remarked. The old healer shrugged and attended to the loudest groan. Djola talked on as if to a friend. “He defies Urzula’s peace and recruits men with few prospects: vanquished Anawanama and Zamanzi, orphans and the sons of outlaws, runaway slaves, and pirates who’ve lost everything to peace.”
The Empire had drafted Djola when he was young, stupid, and lost too.
“Your hands shake.” The old healer rubbed rheumy eyes. His jowls creased with pity. “Captain Pezarrat lives by ancient pirate ways. Don’t let him see that.”