Death kept whooshing in Djola’s ears. Basawili was his reply. Not the end, more breath to come. An hour ago, he was one of the most powerful men in the Empire. Now he was a nobody who couldn’t get a breath. Azizi was sending him on an impossible quest to find a quick cure. Djola clutched the sweetgrass basket. Nuar tried to warn him about Empire treachery. Samina too. He tripped and fell. Uneven stones in the courtyard scraped skin from his knees. The pain was slight, but cleared his vision.

No one from Council had been exiled in twenty years. Would he live to see his wife and children again? What happened to the family of a disgraced master? Did Azizi give a thought to that? Samina and the children would be safe at the hideaway. But they’d worry when he didn’t return, when they got word of his exile. Djola’s heart pounded.

The guards should just put a knife in his gut and get it over with.

“Do you understand what he’s going on about?” the scrappy guard said.

Djola squirmed. “Where is Rano? He can get word to Samina, to my wife.”

“He uses savage talk, reverting to old ways.” The other guard patted his shoulder, not unkind. He raised his voice. “Courage, poison master. You can survive. Just do what the emperor asks.”

“Fatazz!” The scrappy guard cursed as sparks flared from the cook’s entrance. Pirate Queen Urzula emerged with a spark torch—lightning caught on a stick. The guards dropped to one knee, exclaiming at floating-city conjure. Wind nor rain nor sandstorm would douse Urzula’s light.

“Have you lost your escort, my queen?” The scrappy guard kept his eyes lowered, but challenged Urzula for wandering about alone. “Emperor Azizi needs his wife to be safe.”

“Who will attack me?” Urzula laughed. When a spark torch wasn’t lighting up the dark, it could be deployed as a weapon, burning down buildings, boats, and men. “No worries.” She extinguished her torch with gold dust. “I have many weapon-spells.”

A witch woman from the floating cities, Urzula was wide and muscular, well-built for having babies and standing on the decks of pirate ships. Her skin was darker than Djola’s, her hair cropped close, peach fuzz. Silvery white dots made half circles above her eyelids. A line of white crossed blue-tinted lips going from chin to nose—floating-city makeup. Like Samina, Urzula never adopted Empire style, even though good citizens thought she was a seductress.

She blew a dart and skewered a poison snake that dangled from the bushes above the guards’ heads. “Are you men safe?” She chuckled.