“We lose everybody. Zst!” Vandana cursed at familiar faces who yesterday danced on the deck to djembe drums and calabash harps, who bragged about their exploits on land and sea, who drank wine from Djola’s cup to prove they didn’t fear assassins or anything.

Djola had wanted to poison these fools himself or rescue them: too late to do anything. Vandana closed her eyes on tears. Why mourn pirate rogues? They should mourn Kaharta’s dead. Yet, Kaharta and the barbarian confederation looted villages on the Empire’s southern border. Thief-lords fished out the Golden Gulf and filled it with toxic spew. Why pity anybody? Djola let the boy’s body down gently. In exile, a man might lose his wits and nobody would notice. Sanity was an elusive shapeshifter.

“Too many,” the old healer said. “What can we do?”

“Search for an antidote,” Djola mumbled to the dead boy. “That’s what I do.” He yelled to the crew. “Don’t bring in corpses, throw them overboard.” In the swell of a storm wave, the dead boy slid against the bulkhead, eyes fixed on Djola. “You don’t add to my debt.” Djola stumbled over to books taken from Kaharta’s library and jammed them in a barrel.

“We’re lucky.” Vandana glowered at Djola. “Plunder from best library on the Gulf offers ballast. Kaharta was unlucky.”

He replied in Anawanama. “All Kaharta had was last year’s smoked fish and wormy grain stolen from somebody. Gold nobody can eat.”

Vandana smacked him with a book wrapped in Lahesh metal-mesh. “So many dead. For secrets we should leave hidden, forgotten.”

In metal-mesh, this codex could have survived poison sand. Why protect what should be forgotten? Djola drew a bark-paper conjure book from the mesh and whispered its title. “Amplify Now. Xhalan Xhala. Lahesh Reckoning Fire.” Words leapt at him: no progress without sacrifice. His heart jolted.

“A good one?” Orca stroked Djola’s hand and passed fresh bandages to Vandana.

“Yes. The gods of the crossroads are tricksters.” Djola read on, eager.

Lahesh jumba jabba was easier to understand than he’d expected.

2

Lovegrass

In the middle of a chilly night, camped north of Kaharta near the Bog River Gorge, Awa and Bal donned Aido cloth robes for camouflage and drank a midnight berry potion—fruit and herb conjure to see clearly in the dark. They warmed naked toes at the cooking coals and giggled. They were barely fifteen, untested, yet going out with scouts to defend the enclave—after the Elders got done squabbling.

Plump Isra, spiky white hair exploding from vie’s scalp, pinned lanky Yari down on bed cushions in their goat-hair tent. Yari always returned to Isra, the lover never too dazzled by Yari’s charm to argue. Isra had will and vision to match Yari’s and insisted Awa, Bal, and other Sprites were ready to join seasoned shadow warriors on a scouting venture.