Djola drank a cathedral seed and cloud-silk potion to quash the tremors. This bitter Lahesh blend blunted feelings without interfering with his mind, his work. Or that’s what he told himself. A thrashing patient punched the old healer in the nose. Djola ran over and held the man till the fit subsided. Nothing more he could do except—
“I could conjure carnival illusions and frighten villages or merchant ships into quick surrender.” He grinned. “Only a few casualties on either side. Books intact, no griots or libraries going up in smoke.”
The old healer patted Djola’s shoulder like he’d lost his wits. Djola shrugged off the hand. “This is possible.” Hope was still a habit. “I’ll persuade Pezarrat. He’s greedy. I can use that.”
The old man’s bulbous nose dripped blood. He wiped it on a sleeve. “Captain likes to burn. Burning is easy.”
Djola pulled an arm back in its socket. The wounded pirate howled. “My conjure will be easier. I’m the Master of Poisons.”
“You were, yes.”
Djola trudged to the next patient. He refused to believe that the ground had dissolved under his feet. Out the porthole, the stars sparkled in the sky. Djola would make an ally of the wind.
17
Out of Nowhere
It was five months and seven raids before Djola caught Captain Pezarrat alone on the upper deck, and then his mouth went rogue. No mention of conjure and carnival illusions for bloodless raids. Instead, he blurted, “Why head to Arkhys City?”
“Are you afraid to go home?” Pezarrat was as muscular and robust as Arms and always on the lookout for weakness. “Almost a year, maybe they’ve forgotten you.”
“Why risk a run-in with an Empire Patrol you can’t bribe?” Djola replied.
“I take my fleet where I want.” Pezarrat poked the codex that Djola held. “And I let men read whatever nonsense we salvage from barbarians.”
“Lahesh advice for lovemaking. A disappointing waste of parchment.”
“Azizi loans me a mapmaker who guides us to where he wants to go.” Pezarrat scratched beads of hair on his skull and peered at Djola. “For this, I pay one fifth from every raid.”
“You pay so Empire Patrols don’t sink your raggedy ships.” Azizi filled his coffers and blamed pirating on a banished master. “You hide half of what you steal.”
“Patrols spare you, not me. Why?”
“Empire priests burned ancient codices. Barbarians collected them. We would know our enemies.”
Pezarrat huffed. “Chief Nuar has a better storm-sense. Why not loan him to me?”
“Nuar would lead you into a trap.” Djola tasted the air and nodded to the steer-man who turned the ship leeward. “I take you where pirates have never ventured.”
“Pirates know the open sea, Anawanama savages the inland waterway.” Pezarrat scowled. “And I trust no one.”
A commander, whose sleek hair was twisted into a crown knot, approached the captain and held up a bark-paper scroll: Anawanama sacred paper made from mountain fig trees and outlawed in the Empire. Djola’s name was written under a Vévé—the sun and moon circling a crossroads—a sign from the Master of Grain.
“This just … appeared.” The commander spoke with a southern staccato accent. “Out of nowhere!” Kyrie must have folded time and space into a wise-woman corridor and sent a letter from Grain, maybe with word of Samina. “It won’t open.”
The commander jabbed a blade at the seal. The scroll spewed sparks. Silvery-blue flames devoured his pants and tunic. He shrieked and flailed. Pezarrat jumped away. Crewmen threw buckets of water at him. The fire blazed on. The commander tried to run.
Djola tripped him. “Kyrie’s fire-spell protects the scroll. Use gold dust, not water. End his suffering quickly, before the flames spread.”
Pezarrat hissed. “Do what he says.”
Crewmen smothered the burning man in a fortune. Rivulets of gold seared the deck. Ashes drifted up into the sails. A horrible death. Djola shouted Anawanama nonsense, passed his hands through smoke, and pulled the unscathed scroll from the dead man’s grip. A good jumba jabba show. He insisted they shove the corpse into the sea.
Pezarrat gestured agreement. “How does witch-woman Kyrie find us?”
“Bring me any letter that appears from nowhere,” Djola said softly. News usually took months to travel across the Empire. Kyrie’s conjure took no time. “Don’t tamper with the Vévé seal or—”
Pezarrat gripped his throat. “Why not just toss the cursed thing in the sea?”
Djola pulled Pezarrat’s hands from his windpipe. “Without my gold-spell to contain it, Kyrie’s letter would keep coming back, trying to find me,” he lied.
Pirates scowled and backed away. Pezarrat masqueraded cool. “What do I get?”
“I’ll make you a weapon, acid-conjure to dissolve enemy resistance. Merchant ships and barbarians will surrender quickly. No pirate casualties.”
Pezarrat slitted his eyes. “You really know how to do this?”
“I was a spy in a Green Elder enclave. I know many spells.”
Pezarrat glanced at the commander’s body. “I guess you do.”
“I need supplies,” Djola said. “The floating cities have cheaper prices than Arkhys City.” And wise men, the world’s best library, and even talking books. “A direct route across the sea, we’re there in less than a month.”
Pezarrat patted Djola. “My guard will get what you need for acid-conjure in Arkhys City. At the docks, we can even buy you a fighting woman from beyond the maps.”
“Women from beyond the maps are dangerous.”
“I like danger. You too, I think. We’re alike.” Pezarrat and his gang sauntered away.
Azizi thought finding Xhalan Xhala and an antidote would be quick. Madness. Djola dashed down to sick bay. His hands trembling, he unfurled Grain’s letter.
Strength to you, Djola, in exile almost ten months
Nothing much has changed since my last letter
Azizi is as thin and brittle as dead leaves
Yari has disappeared—even I can’t track vie
Northland chiefs chant war and call you and me traitors
Arms whines like a wounded dog
The other masters sit on their thumbs and blame you for speaking bad news aloud
Hezram presses for a chair at the stone-wood table—Azizi still puts him off
Queen Urzula hunts rogue pirates
She’s torched fifty boats, after confiscating the cargo
No master crosses her
Kyrie cannot say if you receive my words
I know the rhythms of your heart and the inland waterway
I too would be an ally to the wind and stars and this connects us
Writing a fourth letter means I believe you receive these reports
I hope you find good conjure to conquer poison desert
Azizi expects a miracle
Something bold and bright to save the day, like from a griot’s hero tale
We all need that
The crossroads gods are tricksters—power to your conjure hand
Nothing from Samina. Djola read the letter four times, as if words from Samina might appear or as if he’d missed news of her somehow and just had to read more carefully. How could Grain write such a letter? Who cared if Arms whined and Urzula chased rogues? Djola cursed Nuar and Yari, who must know Djola was in exile. Nuar should defend Djola against angry chiefs. Yari should persuade Azizi to do right instead of disappear.