“They gave vim a neck tattoo. Neck for crew, wrist for cargo.” I frowned, unconvinced this meant anything at all. Ve let out a mocking laugh. “Settler Ariah, you are strange. You worry so much for Apari, but you’re the one seeking out the pirates. You wanted to go to the southern reaches? This is life in the southern reaches.”

Ve was right. I had asked to come here. I knew finding Sorcha and Shayat meant dealing with pirates on their terms and in their land. The Kivvni left, and when they did, they left without me. They gave me a yurt and two yaks, each with its own finely made, very old saddle. I struck up uneasy friendships with some of the pirates—all of them fleet agents, exiled here to this forgotten outpost for one reason or another. One of them slept with his captain’s tether. One of them sold out a fleet, only to be dumped in Zaghir by the fleet he’d sold them out to. They were a weathered bunch, but not particularly bitter. It was quiet in Zaghir, and safe, which counts for a lot for those in the life. It just wasn’t profitable there. Once you were in, there was no way out.

Most of the pirates stuck in Zaghir were Chalir. Some were half-Qin, half-Chalir, and a few were nahsiyya with blood so thoroughly mixed you could only make guesses as to parentage. All of them played djah, and I learned the patois by playing it with them. For hours and hours in the hot desert sun we played djah. At heart, they were gamblers, but we were all so poor that we had nothing to gamble with. We played for pebbles and buttons. I was wary at first, but I got to know them quickly. I wouldn’t say I trusted any of them, but there were a few who I liked, and who seemed to like me. One man, Fahmi, was a fleet agent for the Sayiff. He was Chalir by birth, but he’d long ago abandoned the book, and he sat before me in just a shirt and trousers. He’d been forced into factory work in Shangri before he was full-grown. He had worked with Semadrans there, and he made me for a shaper the second or third time we spoke. When we played djah together, he tried to recruit me. “There’s always a place on a ship for a shaper,” he said.

“I don’t want a place on a ship,” I said.

“Then why are you here? Zaghir is a piss pot. There’s nothing here but a bunch of vultures looking for recruits.”

And it seemed as good a time as any to ask about Sorcha. That’s what I was there for. “I’m looking for someone. He looks Semadran, but he has red hair. Green eyes. I know he came south, and he might have joined…”