When nobody else could be snatched from death, Djola shooed Vandana and the old healer away. He scrubbed the bloody floor with sand and salt water. He stripped naked and tossed his clothes out a porthole. Orca appeared toting hot water and a clean apron, shirt, and pants. He scrubbed Djola’s skin, ate his smoked fish, and drank his wine, then feigned desire, a lusty display. He was relieved that Djola declined as usual. Orca put out every lamp except one so Djola might read.

“Do you still tell the captain you’re pleased with me?” Orca’s cheeks dimpled.

Djola smiled. “Yes. I want only you.” This might mean danger for Orca.

“He thinks you’ll tell me secrets, eventually.” Orca curled up close, a hot ember.

“I serve the Empire and I miss my wife, our three children. No secrets,” Djola said.

Orca kissed him. “Don’t leave me when you escape. I know I could please you.”

“You please me already.” Djola took comfort in a warm body against his chest, but arousal was impossible. No failing on Orca’s part. The boy sang soft nonsense and fell asleep. He could sleep through rats fighting over maggoty food, pirates screeching, and lightning storms breaking the night. Lulled by his breathing, Djola pulled out the letter. He almost forgot to neutralize Kyrie’s conjure. “Patience.” He sprinkled gold dust and broke open the resin seal.

I say again, I regret hiding among the masks when masters ambushed you at Council

Saving my own head

“What can I do with your regret?” Djola muttered. It helped to talk back.

Shadow warriors carry shade with them and hide in the bright glare of truth

What you predicted comes true—strength to you, Djola, in exile

Blossoms burnt by desert wind bear no fruits, no seeds

Clear-cut mountain slopes crumble away in torrential rains

Rotten groundnuts and berries mean songbirds starve

Fields overrun with beetles and mold produce little grain

Djola’s hands shook. He’d witnessed this from Holy City south to the Golden Gulf.

Council condemns thief-lords, Zamanzi raiders, and city chiefs who steal children

Mobs slice up vesons, blaming them for poor harvests, storms, stillbirths, anything

Yari and other griots avoid the capital and hide out near Mama Zamba

“Fools! And is the harvest better?” No way for Djola to get a letter to the mountain backbone for Yari. “Zst!” If he could just talk to Yari. They could do Xhalan Xhala together and make a stronger spell.

Rebels masquerade as good citizens and nobody knows their plans

Djola scoffed. “They have no plans. A mob, nothing more.”