Fahmi looked up from his cards. “Plays a violin? His Qin is shit?”

“You know him?” My heart leapt into my throat.

Fahmi slapped down his cards and took the hand. I lost three buttons. “Sorcha. Yes, I know him. Runs with the, uh…” Fahmi leaned back and yelled to another pirate. “Hey! Hey, Maghrib, what fleet does the tink-mix with the fiddle run with?”

“The Fiddler? Oh, he…” The other pirate snapped in triumph: “Nakash! Yeah, he sails with the tink fleet. Nakash. Is that the one he’s looking for? Fits the description.”

Fahmi shrugged. “Might be. Our silver Droma here says he’s looking for the Fiddler. Small world, eh?”

“It’s Zaghir,” Maghrib said. “Everything here is small.”

“Eh, speak for yourself,” Fahmi said. Ripples of laughter ran through the nearby djah players. Fahmi dealt me another hand. “There you go. Nakash. I tell you, the Nakash runner must like him. He’s not been in the life long, and he’s already an agent with a leash long enough that he can come trawling out this far looking for you.”

“Everyone always likes Sorcha. You like him; I can tell.”

“I do. You know, I do. Always brings me a crate of good rum when he comes by.”

“How often does he come to Zaghir?”

Fahmi shrugged. “Oh, you never can tell. Demands of the fleet, you know? Or, I guess you wouldn’t know. Not yet, anyway. You run with Sorcha, and you’re bound to wind up in a fleet one way or another.” The thought sat heavy in me and not at all well. Fahmi laughed and played a card. “Oh, my silver nomad, the life is just a life. Look, you did low work back west, right?”

“I did. Wool factory.”

“Unless you’re cargo or prone to seasickness, you’ll get nothing that bad in the life.”

* * *

There was nothing to do but wait. I hoped Sorcha would turn up in Zaghir eventually, but I had no idea when. It could be days. It could be decades. It could be hours. There was no way to tell. There was no way to send word to him either: ship pirates came to Zaghir rarely, and when they passed through, they always went north. Zaghir was a stopping place to gather supplies for those striking out to take Droma nomads as cargo. When they found what they wanted, they made for Essala where the ships ported. All I could do was wait, and the waiting was terrible.