Orca’s body healed quickly, but he was skittish, rarely spoke, and never left sick bay. He offered his body to Djola and looked terrified when Djola declined. Drunk pirates kept sniffing around him, so Djola told Pezarrat he wanted Orca exclusively. Pezarrat agreed. Acid-conjure let the captain triple his raids—as Vandana predicted. Sick bay was flooded with foolhardy pirates and wounded captives. Orca tended patients, doing what Djola hated. He had a gentle touch and a soothing manner.

“What else can I do for you?” Orca asked.

Djola let Orca massage tension away, but nothing more.

“You should learn what we know,” Vandana declared. “You like doctoring.”

Vandana taught Orca and Djola healing secrets from beyond the maps. Djola was excellent at concocting cures. Orca was better tending patients. Evenings, after brewing herb potions with Djola or patching up pirates with Vandana, Orca joined Djola climbing the mast. Birds hovered in warm updrafts, their delicate wing feathers gleaming. Djola liked dangling over the sea, feeling the swell in his stomach, letting the wind get lost in his hair. High waves broke across the bow and reminded him of Samina on a flimsy raft, cutting the water, naked under a sliver of moon.

Orca watched him sway over roiling water with terrified eyes. Vandana roamed the deck below, shouting at stars and gathering moonbeams for her small bag. Pirates who considered forcing her to their bunks feared how they might wake in the morning, or if they’d wake at all. She had an array of hidden weapons, yet was gentle, sentimental. She believed in dragging people back from death. Anybody was worth her efforts.

When the fleet reached the Golden Gulf, Pezarrat bombarded Sand Haven, a fortified barbarian city, with acid-conjure. Hundreds died. Vandana blamed Djola and stopped talking to him. This was an arrow in his gut. She still insisted Pezarrat bring Sand Haven books and live griots to Djola. The books were full of whimsy and fear. Griots spouted the same jumba jabba he’d already read about Xhalan Xhala: the power of Smokeland in the everyday; tomorrow from yesterday right now; sacred conjure too dangerous to be shared.

What did that mean? Djola was a terrible smoke-walker. He hated leaving his body to fly off to who knows where. He barely made it through the border-void his last trip with Samina. Wielding the power of Smokeland in the everyday was a daunting prospect. He’d rather concoct mixtures from stone powder, crystal dust, and potash. Babalawo wise men in the floating cities might know how to master the spell of spells. They might also help him neutralize poison sand.