When nobody else could be snatched from death, Djola shooed Vandana and the old healer away. He scrubbed the bloody floor with sand and salt water. He stripped naked and tossed his clothes out a porthole. Orca appeared toting hot water and a clean apron, shirt, and pants. He scrubbed Djola’s skin, ate his smoked fish, and drank his wine, then feigned desire, a lusty display. He was relieved that Djola declined as usual. Orca put out every lamp except one so Djola might read.
“Do you still tell the captain you’re pleased with me?” Orca’s cheeks dimpled.
Djola smiled. “Yes. I want only you.” This might mean danger for Orca.
“He thinks you’ll tell me secrets, eventually.” Orca curled up close, a hot ember.
“I serve the Empire and I miss my wife, our three children. No secrets,” Djola said.
Orca kissed him. “Don’t leave me when you escape. I know I could please you.”
“You please me already.” Djola took comfort in a warm body against his chest, but arousal was impossible. No failing on Orca’s part. The boy sang soft nonsense and fell asleep. He could sleep through rats fighting over maggoty food, pirates screeching, and lightning storms breaking the night. Lulled by his breathing, Djola pulled out the letter. He almost forgot to neutralize Kyrie’s conjure. “Patience.” He sprinkled gold dust and broke open the resin seal.
I say again, I regret hiding among the masks when masters ambushed you at Council
Saving my own head
“What can I do with your regret?” Djola muttered. It helped to talk back.
Shadow warriors carry shade with them and hide in the bright glare of truth
What you predicted comes true—strength to you, Djola, in exile
Blossoms burnt by desert wind bear no fruits, no seeds
Clear-cut mountain slopes crumble away in torrential rains
Rotten groundnuts and berries mean songbirds starve
Fields overrun with beetles and mold produce little grain
Djola’s hands shook. He’d witnessed this from Holy City south to the Golden Gulf.
Council condemns thief-lords, Zamanzi raiders, and city chiefs who steal children
Mobs slice up vesons, blaming them for poor harvests, storms, stillbirths, anything
Yari and other griots avoid the capital and hide out near Mama Zamba
“Fools! And is the harvest better?” No way for Djola to get a letter to the mountain backbone for Yari. “Zst!” If he could just talk to Yari. They could do Xhalan Xhala together and make a stronger spell.
Rebels masquerade as good citizens and nobody knows their plans
Djola scoffed. “They have no plans. A mob, nothing more.”
Arkhys City wise men want a week each month in the library to themselves
Azizi refuses to ban women even for a day, a wedding present to Queen Urzula
Tree oil from Holy City is abundant and nobody freezes on cold nights
The Master of Arms has a fresh supply of warhorses and more recruits every day
Empire coffers are full and warrior morale is high
Azizi won’t give Hezram your chair
“He’s unworthy to crawl on the floor of Council.”
Money, Water, and high priest Ernold scheme for Hezram in secret
Trapped in Arkhys City, your half-brother, wife, and children are in mortal danger
Djola read these last lines a hundred hundred times. His heart thundered; his breath was shallow. Orca woke with a start. He stared at the scroll in Djola’s trembling hands. “Poison?” His heart pounded too.
“Yes. In the letter.”
Orca scooted away from the bark-paper. “Do you know an antidote?”
“No.”
6
Living
Orca lit another lamp and dashed off.
Djola talked on to the walls, in Anawanama. “Grain is a coward who hangs in shadows waiting to see where the winds blow. Kyrie is holed up in her precious mountain. She won’t leave her glaciers to help just a few people. My people.” His chest tightened. Each breath was a stab. “Her own sister!” Djola pounded the deck. “Why write mortal danger to me when I can do nothing but go mad?”
Perhaps Grain hoped to shield himself from Djola’s wrath, in which case Grain was a fool and a coward.
Vandana appeared with Orca in a Lahesh flame-cloth tunic that glowed in the dark. Djola barely noticed. “Assassins have failed the masters at Azizi’s table, so this letter is the knife in my heart.”
The last line read: I didn’t find out until too late. Kyrie sends hope.
“How long has Grain kept this from me?” Djola shouted.
“Who knows?” Vandana knocked the knife that Djola dug into his chest from his hand. It clattered to the floor, loud enough to wake the dead, or maybe that was Djola howling. He shoved past Vandana and stepped on a woman too wounded to roll out of his way.
He cursed Kyrie, Grain, and pirates, priests, thief-lords, farmers, and good citizens then banged into a post and fell. Orca sat on his belly. Vandana cradled his head while he cried.
* * *
Djola woke the next morning shivering, yet his insides burned. His head was in Vandana’s lap. She stroked his cheek. Orca curled against his back, snoring. Djola lurched to standing.
“You all right?” Vandana’s stupid question and teary look sent him racing out of sick bay. Up on deck, a freak snowstorm slapped him in the face. He paced along the railing, snarling at a white sky falling into a gray sea.
“Nobody in the Gulf has seen storms like this in a hundred years.” Pezarrat stepped from a snow squall wrapped in a white bear. The head had fangs. “Wild weather every week. Fools read ominous messages from the gods in any ill wind. I see opportunity.” Djola wanted to murder Pezarrat then join his family in the death lands. Luckily for the captain, Orca had confiscated the blades hidden in Djola’s sleeves, belt, and boots.
Pezarrat dodged balls of sleet. “I tell everyone ice storms are Djola’s fault. Outlaw conjure. They feel better to hear that. Well, not better about you, but jumba jabba is better than crossroads gods laughing at you.”
Djola backed away from Pezarrat and returned to sick bay. He downed a seed and silk potion. The day passed in a haze. Orca and Vandana were busy sewing wounds that had reopened. Vandana did Djola’s work and hers. Orca brought him roasted bird stew. Somebody ate it, not Djola.
“Don’t lose hope.” Vandana sat down next to Djola. “Your family could still live.”
“Hope might keep me alive,” he replied. “It will also be torture.”
“No. Despair is torture. Do something good. That is living.”
“Everyone asks too much of me.”
“Do they?” She patted him and went back to sewing folks she insisted were well enough to fetch a good price.
He swung from hope to despair twenty times a day. He almost killed Pezarrat a dozen times and also thought to poison himself.
Orca watched him closely. “In suicide, no honor for your family. Suicide serves your enemies. Vandana is right. What if your family lives? What if you’re like the ancient heroes who faced down demons and saved their beloveds and everybody else too?”
Djola sneered at Orca but practiced pulling fire for Xhalan Xhala. He’d mastered many tricky spells: talking to rivers and trees, feeling the rhythms of dirt and water, reading the stars. Pulling fire required different talents: a storm of stillness in his mind, a sense of the heat animating everything. Many a conjurer had burned up trying to pull fire with a false gesture, an off rhythm, the wrong breath. For Djola the hardest part was the chill on his hand and at his heart.