Behind Djola, Vandana offered a dagger smile and a stronger accent than usual. “Every day, Djola is calling ornery wind and wailing haints to sails. He throws fire and freak ice storms at enemies. He loves the world, but he say, turn around, go back up.”
A woman pirate, scarred and missing a few teeth, stepped up. “I know you, poison master.” Djola didn’t know her. He tried not to know Pezarrat’s pirates. “Griots sing of your mother, a captive—yet one son a chief, the other a master. You’ve risen; so can they.” Djola spat on tales Azizi paid griots to spread. “We’ve both risen,” the pirate woman insisted. “Pezarrat stole me from Kaharta.”
“In the mines and brothels, they work you to death and pay nothing,” Djola replied. The captives were crying. A few slid to the ground. “Take them back up on deck.”
Orca came down the ladder with Pezarrat.
“I said everywhere except sick bay.” The captain waved the pirates away. “Get out of here before he turns you into weasels or slugs.” The pirates herded the captives to the ladder. “You arrogant rascal.” Pezarrat poked Djola’s chest. “I should sell you.”
“Who can afford your price?” Djola scowled. “Not even masters at Azizi’s table.”
“Those stingy cowards think I’d kill you for a few coins.” Pezarrat chuckled, then whispered in Djola’s ear. “In honor of your mother, I don’t capture Anawanama.”
Djola had Zamanzi blood too. That was a story he refused to share. He pointed at the children struggling up the ladder. “They’ll spread disease. We’ll all get sick, and there’s nothing I can do. I needed supplies before the last big raid.” He whispered, “You’re captain, but I wouldn’t take on more captives. Too dangerous.”
“You wouldn’t sell captives at all.” Pezarrat gripped Djola’s shoulders. “What’s in the floating cities that won’t wait till I make a little coin first?”
Djola was desperate to talk to Babalawo wise men who might understand the shimmer storms that appeared out of nowhere and left poison desert behind. Librarians could help him pull fire and do Xhalan Xhala. Urzula could offer more news of his family than Grain’s letters. “I need supplies.” Djola lied with truth. “For healing, for repairs, and acid-conjure too. We couldn’t sink a bucket with what I have left.”
“You exaggerate.” Pezarrat studied Djola. “Azizi spares my ships not just for the bribes I pay, but for you. After all this time. Why?” He searched Djola’s eyes. “You’re a snake, aren’t you?” He marched off.
The woman pirate and furry man fell ill that night. Vandana saved the man, but the woman died a week later. Vandana muttered we-warned-you curses. Unnerved, Pezarrat unloaded the captives before Thunder River and decided against more northland raids. The fleet struck out for the floating cities in bad weather. Relief, hope, and fear wrung Djola out. He hung from the mast and wept into the wind.
* * *
For two weeks, Djola paced the upper deck, trying to pull fire and cursing high waves. He never managed cold around his heart. Sometimes he sat and stared at mist, muttering in Anawanama, trying to talk to the ancestors. Pirates avoided him. Orca and Vandana made him eat and drink and poured potions in him for sleep. This evening, cold rain pounded Djola’s head. Soft-spoken Orca shook him and mumbled.
“Speak up,” Djola growled. “I can’t hear you.”
Orca shouted, “Vandana says we should make you gloves to hold fire without burning your hands.” Djola squinted at flame-red palms and sparks flitting across the waves. Had he just called fire? Orca pulled him toward sick bay. “Vandana says you know a good mesh-spell.”
“I’m the Master of Poisons. I know an antidote for everything except poison sand.”
“I don’t want you to get sick or catch fire.” Orca was as sentimental as Vandana. Or maybe Pezarrat paid him an extra share to be kind. Orca hauled Djola to their bunk. “You’re shivering and too hot at the same time.”
“What do you want?” Djola surprised them both with this question.
Orca rubbed Djola dry and stuffed him in a warm cloak. “What can I want?”
“I want to hold my wife, smell her skin, hear her scold me and the children. I want to see her ride the waves, half naked on a flimsy board. I’d love her wise counsel.”
“Spies told Vandana, Queen Urzula travels to the floating cities to see her children.”
Djola tensed. “Urzula knows everything that happens in Arkhys City. I’ll beg her for news of my family. Tell Pezarrat this secret so he can stop threatening you.” Djola sighed. “You must want something.”
“I’ll think about that and then tell you.” Orca put salve on Djola’s angry palms. “Urzula is wise. She’ll help you, but—”
“What? Tell me,” Djola commanded.
Orca’s dimpled cheeks flushed. “You drink too much seed and silk. The last trip to the floating cities your mind was mush.”
“Which trip? When?” Djola wanted to deny a trip to the floating cities, but he vaguely remembered a nightmare where he sputtered jibber jabber at Babalawos, who sneered at him. Had this happened? “No, I—”
Orca hugged Djola. “This time you must be clear.”
In exile a true friend was a treasure, even if he was a spy.
10
Goat Treats
Two Goats bound from a crumbling ledge to the boulder wedged between a stone-wood tree and a piece of sky that fell long ago. The Goats love this climb. They lick salty minerals on the ancient tree then trot along a narrow ridge into the wind. Few creatures can reach them on the knife edge. The air is thin and cold; every step is slippery. They jump over a gap. Behind them the wild dog growls at someone. Big cats don’t roam this high, only the foolish dog.
The Goats and dog have been friends since they were kids. The dog barks and lunges at a flurry of feathers. A golden eagle takes to the air, chirping and circling the peak. The Goats consider the bird, unafraid. Eagles only attack kids or a distracted goat, hoping to knock one down the mountain and feast. Not today. The dog keeps the eagles in the air. Yari, Awa, and Bal tramp up behind the dog, panting and chattering. They scramble and sweat.
“This is my favorite peak,” Yari says.
“Worth falling for?” Awa asks.
“You climb like a goat,” Bal replies. “Don’t complain.”
“Food is better at the top.” Yari talk-sings. “Berries taste like sunshine. Cloud mist is the best wine.”
Awa and Bal snort and blow their lips like horses. “Goat treats.”
The Goats jump to the peak and scurry down the other side. Dewclaws are sharp and prevent slipping. They reach a rocky terrace, bathed in sun. Scruffy shrubs hold down soil. The Goats eat leaves, twigs, berries, and crunchy lichen. The dog wiggles through a rock tunnel to the terrace, avoiding the knife edge and peak, treacherous for his soft paws. He licks the Goats’ faces, finds a warm rock, and drops down, panting. The Goats eat quickly, before Yari, Awa, and Bal arrive. They’ll eat too and then want to turn back. Beyond the terrace, this sunny side of the mountain is sheer rock, nothing for even Goats to hold onto. Golden eagles fly about, diving down to catch something for the bleating mouths in their nests.