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?”