It was five months and seven raids before Djola caught Captain Pezarrat alone on the upper deck, and then his mouth went rogue. No mention of conjure and carnival illusions for bloodless raids. Instead, he blurted, “Why head to Arkhys City?”

“Are you afraid to go home?” Pezarrat was as muscular and robust as Arms and always on the lookout for weakness. “Almost a year, maybe they’ve forgotten you.”

“Why risk a run-in with an Empire Patrol you can’t bribe?” Djola replied.

“I take my fleet where I want.” Pezarrat poked the codex that Djola held. “And I let men read whatever nonsense we salvage from barbarians.”

“Lahesh advice for lovemaking. A disappointing waste of parchment.”

“Azizi loans me a mapmaker who guides us to where he wants to go.” Pezarrat scratched beads of hair on his skull and peered at Djola. “For this, I pay one fifth from every raid.”

“You pay so Empire Patrols don’t sink your raggedy ships.” Azizi filled his coffers and blamed pirating on a banished master. “You hide half of what you steal.”

“Patrols spare you, not me. Why?”

“Empire priests burned ancient codices. Barbarians collected them. We would know our enemies.”

Pezarrat huffed. “Chief Nuar has a better storm-sense. Why not loan him to me?”

“Nuar would lead you into a trap.” Djola tasted the air and nodded to the steer-man who turned the ship leeward. “I take you where pirates have never ventured.”

“Pirates know the open sea, Anawanama savages the inland waterway.” Pezarrat scowled. “And I trust no one.”

A commander, whose sleek hair was twisted into a crown knot, approached the captain and held up a bark-paper scroll: Anawanama sacred paper made from mountain fig trees and outlawed in the Empire. Djola’s name was written under a Vévé—the sun and moon circling a crossroads—a sign from the Master of Grain.

“This just … appeared.” The commander spoke with a southern staccato accent. “Out of nowhere!” Kyrie must have folded time and space into a wise-woman corridor and sent a letter from Grain, maybe with word of Samina. “It won’t open.”

The commander jabbed a blade at the seal. The scroll spewed sparks. Silvery-blue flames devoured his pants and tunic. He shrieked and flailed. Pezarrat jumped away. Crewmen threw buckets of water at him. The fire blazed on. The commander tried to run.

Djola tripped him. “Kyrie’s fire-spell protects the scroll. Use gold dust, not water. End his suffering quickly, before the flames spread.”

Pezarrat hissed. “Do what he says.”

Crewmen smothered the burning man in a fortune. Rivulets of gold seared the deck. Ashes drifted up into the sails. A horrible death. Djola shouted Anawanama nonsense, passed his hands through smoke, and pulled the unscathed scroll from the dead man’s grip. A good jumba jabba show. He insisted they shove the corpse into the sea.

Pezarrat gestured agreement. “How does witch-woman Kyrie find us?”