“I can’t remember my dreams.”
“Do what you need to do, then come to me, at Mount Eidhou.”
“If I knew what to do, I’d already be free.”
“To be free, you live for change, not revenge. Conjure the future as if it were past.”
He gasped. “To dance Xhalan Xhala for Pezarrat I should see the gold dust or turquoise his plunder brings?”
“That’s one future.” She put icy fingers on his heart. “You say we do this to ourselves. There are other futures. See these as well. And offer void-smoke to crossroads gods.”
Smokeland was what might be, what could be, yet never very far from what was happening right now. Xhalan Xhala brought Smokeland to the everyday and the void too, the lost possibilities. Before they could speak more, Djola was rushing across the light bridge, swirling through a comet’s icy tail, his mind reeling, his heart quaking. He came back to himself shivering and sweating on his bunk.
The sick bay was empty. Vandana and Orca had left his breath body unprotected. Somebody could have killed him or worse, poisoned him and made him a spirit slave. Djola jerked up. Vandana and Orca were spies, but loyal to him, always on the lookout for assassins. Something was wrong.
His Aido bag, kora harp, and mountain of books had disappeared. Vandana’s bag sat next to him in the sunlight from a porthole. The blades Orca had confiscated from Djola circled the bag, tips pointed outward. A scroll and Djola’s latest maps for Jena City and Bog-Town lay on top of the bag. A message was scrawled in Lahesh on the scroll.
If the way is open, run.
I should have left sooner, but didn’t want to abandon you and Orca.
Now you go to home and I have good to do elsewhere. That is living.
I am too sentimental to face farewell.
I hold your Kora harp and Aido bag. This Lahesh bag, your bag now. A library.
Keep it safe. Add to it. Pass it on.
Remember, these are good people on the wrong ship.
Dochsi, you do love the world.
Dochsi—the Lahesh no to negativity. His heart pounded; blood sang in his ears. Aside from Weeds and Wild Things, Orca and Vandana were the only ones living who touched him inside the fortress he’d made of heart and mind. Djola hid the knives in boots, sleeves, and belt, then snatched up bag, scroll, and map. He tore through the ship, searching for his friends.
Pirates, captives, and the cook claimed ignorance, but they lied. Djola burst into Pezarrat’s cabin. The walls glowed in the light of many lamps. Ten swords and two bows were aimed at Djola, and still the guards stank of fear. Maps and velvet throws were strewn about the chamber. Two naked women shivered on the bed. A hot pot under a messy table warmed Pezarrat’s feet. Djola dropped the Jena City map on the table next to a knife-catapult from the floating cities. Pezarrat, wrapped in a dead black bear, looked up from his fish eggs and oysters, his face a mask of cool. A lie.
“They told me nothing of use,” Pezarrat declared. “Well, Orca said you’d lost your wits trying to master Xhalan Xhala, but the spell of spells would not yield to you. Vandana said you’d finally found what you were looking for, right when Mama Zamba hosted spring.” An eyelid and a nostril twitched. “Somebody had to be lying.”
Djola shook his head. Vandana and Orca spoke truth.
“Either way, one betrayed you and one betrayed me, so both deserved death.” Pezarrat scratched beads of hair on a sun-bronzed scalp—what he did when fearful. “I sold that Mama Zamba healer bitch. A snake in my house, like you. She was worth a new ship. Orca said I would choke on my treasure and die.” He swallowed an oyster. “What captain allows that from a useless fat whore? I cut his uppity head off.” He laughed.
The women on Pezarrat’s bed clutched each other’s bruised arms. The guards trembled. Pezarrat was lying, testing, joking, and telling awful truths. Distractions.
Despite waves of revulsion and rage, Djola kept his face blank.
“Feeding Orca shark stew and floating-city scrolls”—Pezarrat smirked—“your fault he’s dead, you arrogant son of savages.”
“Why should I care what you do to your spies?” Djola danced his mind still. With each spin and stomp, Samina’s chill filled him. As the temperature dropped, the women scrambled to cover themselves with velvet. The guards lowered swords and bows, entranced. Pezarrat fingered his knife-catapult. Djola squinted his right eye at the Jena City map and touched the corner with his bare left hand. “Xhalan Xhala.”
At the crossroads of crossroads, he imagined Pezarrat’s future rising from the flames. There were many futures; Pezarrat’s was easy to render. White flames flared then a gold nugget materialized. Everyone gasped. Djola’s breath was cold mist. He pushed the nugget toward Pezarrat. A cloud of void-smoke, of possibilities lost, gusted out the window.
“I’ll raid Jena City and pay off the last of what I owe you.” Djola smiled.
“You’ll join a raid?” Pezarrat fingered the gold. “What of your mission for Azizi?”
“What remains in the Arkhysian Empire for me?” The truth was the best illusion. Pezarrat clutched the gold. Greed warred with reason on his face and greed won. Djola would feel no remorse when Pezarrat died. “If it’s a trick, you can set your guards on me.” The guards trembled. Djola leaned close to Pezarrat. “Or we can get rich enough to retire to the floating cities. I’ve mapped Jena City’s wealth.”
“You speak truth.” Pezarrat prided himself on reading men’s hearts. “Our last raid.”
2
Trickster
Dawn. The sea was gray glass. Thick fog tasted sour in Djola’s mouth as he and Pezarrat’s guards headed out in six large supply canoes. Muscular rogues with pirate pants cinched at the ankles, they all looked like Pezarrat: tight knots of hair, beady dark eyes, a greedy sneer on full lips. Men like this dragged Samina to a transgressor hut and abandoned his children to the desert without blinking. Men like this could sell Vandana and chop Orca’s head with a chuckle and a fart. They deserved a poison-desert death.
The canoe slid onto a golden beach as fog burned off. Djola and the pirates strode along a boardwalk into Jena City. Nobody patrolled the sea entrance to the city, not even a dog—lazy arrogance. A cluster of mud-brick buildings was surrounded by warrior-statues carved from black lava rock. Flying beasts died on the warrior’s blades; naked women were curled at their feet. Deserted merchant stalls swayed in the sea breeze. A stone well inlaid with crystals dominated the market square.
“Water is life—the greatest treasure.” Djola touched cool wetness to his forehead.
Captives huddled in their own filth by the well. They waited for a dousing and sale. Women, men, and young ones were locked together, but not guarded. They observed Djola with dull eyes. Thief-lords did swift trade in human flesh. They deserved a poison death too. Railing at the crossroads gods for their indifference, Djola touched the captives’ chains.
In the midst of murky tomorrows, he glimpsed a free future: people stepping off a waterwheel boat in the floating cities, enchanted by garden barges and sky windows. Locks burst open in a flare of light. Crystals in the stone well swallowed void-dust. Djola barely had time to register this. The captives shrieked. Djola used a Lahesh blade to slice through shackles. “Run!” He pointed at the beach. “Today we’re free.”