Chapters (102)
Djola gagged. He’d come on deck to study the storm and clear his mind. That wasn’t working. He hurried back to sick bay, a dark den, barely taller than he was. The old healer—whose name Djola kept forgetting—lit tree-oil lamps that hung from mismatched beams. Swinging lights made eerie shadows dance along the hull. The old man was thin as a ghost, had three teeth, and five scraggly gray hairs. He looked ready to fade into the death lands, but was never seasick and never complained if Djola abandoned him to watch the sun set or a storm rise. Singing a barbarian ditty, the old healer trudged among bodies stuffed in bunks, slung in hammocks, and sliding on a lumpy wood floor. Djola had survived grisly battles, yet, to his surprise, these broken bodies made him as shaky as Azizi. He flexed twitching hands. Tremors persisted as he cleaned and dressed a knife wound.
“Pezarrat bribes Empire Patrol boats,” Djola remarked. The old healer shrugged and attended to the loudest groan. Djola talked on as if to a friend. “He defies Urzula’s peace and recruits men with few prospects: vanquished Anawanama and Zamanzi, orphans and the sons of outlaws, runaway slaves, and pirates who’ve lost everything to peace.”
The Empire had drafted Djola when he was young, stupid, and lost too.
“Your hands shake.” The old healer rubbed rheumy eyes. His jowls creased with pity. “Captain Pezarrat lives by ancient pirate ways. Don’t let him see that.”
Djola drank a cathedral seed and cloud-silk potion to quash the tremors. This bitter Lahesh blend blunted feelings without interfering with his mind, his work. Or that’s what he told himself. A thrashing patient punched the old healer in the nose. Djola ran over and held the man till the fit subsided. Nothing more he could do except—
“I could conjure carnival illusions and frighten villages or merchant ships into quick surrender.” He grinned. “Only a few casualties on either side. Books intact, no griots or libraries going up in smoke.”
The old healer patted Djola’s shoulder like he’d lost his wits. Djola shrugged off the hand. “This is possible.” Hope was still a habit. “I’ll persuade Pezarrat. He’s greedy. I can use that.”
The old man’s bulbous nose dripped blood. He wiped it on a sleeve. “Captain likes to burn. Burning is easy.”
Djola pulled an arm back in its socket. The wounded pirate howled. “My conjure will be easier. I’m the Master of Poisons.”
“You were, yes.”
Djola trudged to the next patient. He refused to believe that the ground had dissolved under his feet. Out the porthole, the stars sparkled in the sky. Djola would make an ally of the wind.