“No.” Djola lifted his head so he wouldn’t drown in his own blood. “People say, ‘Living is free. No debts to pay at the end, just a legacy to leave behind.’” Djola repeated Zamanzi lies, excuses warriors invented for bad behavior. He wasn’t a proper healer like Vandana. She knew stories to ease a body into the death lands.
The boy shivered. “Who could believe such a thing?”
“Zamanzi—”
“Savages believe anything.” The boy came from a city like the one that burned, that had killed him. Kaharta was in a necklace of rich barbarian market centers around the Golden Gulf. A confederation of proud thief-lords, they’d seen better days.
The boy tugged Djola’s sleeve. “Do you believe we carry no debts at the end? You’re a Council master, a wise man—”
“Just a pirate like you and a savage even.”
“No.” The boy convulsed. “A wise man.”
Djola flinched and surveyed the wounded. This lot had been burned or hacked so badly, they were only ten breaths from—
“Death costs everything you’ve got,” the boy mumbled. “Nothing left to pay a spirit debt.” He expired. Djola might have saved him if he’d gotten to him sooner.
“We lose everybody. Zst!” Vandana cursed at familiar faces who yesterday danced on the deck to djembe drums and calabash harps, who bragged about their exploits on land and sea, who drank wine from Djola’s cup to prove they didn’t fear assassins or anything.
Djola had wanted to poison these fools himself or rescue them: too late to do anything. Vandana closed her eyes on tears. Why mourn pirate rogues? They should mourn Kaharta’s dead. Yet, Kaharta and the barbarian confederation looted villages on the Empire’s southern border. Thief-lords fished out the Golden Gulf and filled it with toxic spew. Why pity anybody? Djola let the boy’s body down gently. In exile, a man might lose his wits and nobody would notice. Sanity was an elusive shapeshifter.
“Too many,” the old healer said. “What can we do?”
“Search for an antidote,” Djola mumbled to the dead boy. “That’s what I do.” He yelled to the crew. “Don’t bring in corpses, throw them overboard.” In the swell of a storm wave, the dead boy slid against the bulkhead, eyes fixed on Djola. “You don’t add to my debt.” Djola stumbled over to books taken from Kaharta’s library and jammed them in a barrel.
“We’re lucky.” Vandana glowered at Djola. “Plunder from best library on the Gulf offers ballast. Kaharta was unlucky.”
He replied in Anawanama. “All Kaharta had was last year’s smoked fish and wormy grain stolen from somebody. Gold nobody can eat.”
Vandana smacked him with a book wrapped in Lahesh metal-mesh. “So many dead. For secrets we should leave hidden, forgotten.”
In metal-mesh, this codex could have survived poison sand. Why protect what should be forgotten? Djola drew a bark-paper conjure book from the mesh and whispered its title. “Amplify Now. Xhalan Xhala. Lahesh Reckoning Fire.” Words leapt at him: no progress without sacrifice. His heart jolted.
“A good one?” Orca stroked Djola’s hand and passed fresh bandages to Vandana.
“Yes. The gods of the crossroads are tricksters.” Djola read on, eager.
Lahesh jumba jabba was easier to understand than he’d expected.
2
Lovegrass
In the middle of a chilly night, camped north of Kaharta near the Bog River Gorge, Awa and Bal donned Aido cloth robes for camouflage and drank a midnight berry potion—fruit and herb conjure to see clearly in the dark. They warmed naked toes at the cooking coals and giggled. They were barely fifteen, untested, yet going out with scouts to defend the enclave—after the Elders got done squabbling.
Plump Isra, spiky white hair exploding from vie’s scalp, pinned lanky Yari down on bed cushions in their goat-hair tent. Yari always returned to Isra, the lover never too dazzled by Yari’s charm to argue. Isra had will and vision to match Yari’s and insisted Awa, Bal, and other Sprites were ready to join seasoned shadow warriors on a scouting venture.
Yari had doubts, but finally agreed on one condition: vie would lead the expedition instead of Isra, the enclave’s best scout. To sweeten the deal, Yari promised Isra a new song.
Isra scowled. “An exiled master roams the Gulf hunting you on a pirate ship.”
“Your spies are well-informed.” Yari kissed Isra.
“He sends missives in Lahesh that you don’t share.” Isra tried to be angry. “Did he steal your heart and stomp it? Like the high priest of Holy City?”
“He’s not like Hezram. More like the Sprites we have now. I worry about him.”
“Were you lovers?”
Yari smiled. “He thinks I waste my time teaching Sprites.”
“You seek news of pirates and old lovers from Kahartan warriors. Rascal—”
Yari drowned out Isra’s protests, singing a favorite:
Stolen love tears you apart, but—
We can give love away
Make a bridge of the heart
Isra laughed as Yari promised a new verse on return. Thrilled, Bal gathered bow, arrows, sword, spear, drum, and calabash rattles. Awa had no instruments or weapons to take along and felt useless. She helped Isra and Yari load grain stores onto hardy goats, then packed up bedding, tent, Isra’s loom, and the few books they carried with them.
Who needed to lug heavy tomes and delicate scrolls when Yari knew more stories than vie had time to tell? Before the enclave crossed the Bog River Gorge, Awa had hoped to visit the Kahartan library with Yari, the greatest library outside the floating cities, but Isra’s spies said library and librarians were soot. Pirates had raided and stolen the best books. Awa sighed and pulled on climbing boots. Why bring a smoke-walker on a dangerous expedition when what you needed were warriors?
Isra and the enclave disappeared into the gorge, silent and slippery as fog. No barbarians would be able to track them as they scattered into the hills. Yari and the big-headed wild dog led the scouts and five pack goats the opposite direction through loose gravel and scrub brush. Keeping up with Yari’s jaunty pace left Awa breathless.
The dog stalked a foolish party of Kahartans who, given poison weapons and midnight stealth, intended to ambush the Green Elders. Uneven terrain around the gorge was treacherous. Flash floods carved new canyons every afternoon. The barbarians slowed to a crawl. Yari sang, in many voices, a local song that laid out the best routes along solid rock ledges and sounded like birds, bugs, and wind in the bushes. Awa sang along, guiding the Sprites creeping behind her.
“I’m a map,” she whispered in Bal’s ear. “I know all the songs from around here.” Kahartan thief-lords regularly plundered villages near their city, but had never learned the People’s songs. “I’ve drawn this entire region many times.”
Yari shushed her using the hand-talk of Ishba people. They perched above the enemy, invisible, though a keen-eared barbarian might catch whispered words under Yari’s song-cloak. Shadow warriors nocked arrows, aimed spears, and drew their swords.
Bal, Awa, and the other Sprites hid in fragrant laurel bushes. Awa calmed her mind to map every detail of this encounter and tell a full story. At least she could do a griot’s task.