“They’ll come soon.” Pezarrat stood at the prow haggling with good Empire citizens over the price of captives and a surcharge to ferry them to Thunder River, the Empire’s northern border.

“Costly,” a reddish brown citizen declared, a rich man who drank tree oil and transgressor blood for long life. This brew gave even the blackest skin a reddish glow. Djola was disgusted. He was on deck to vouch for the captives’ health and guarantee a high price. Azizi and Urzula outlawed raiding for captives, so Pezarrat claimed desperate northlanders sold their daughters and even sons. Pezarrat’s price was reasonable and his lie easy to swallow, even easier to repeat. Good citizens traveled to the cove to buy cheap labor for farms, mines, brothels, or who knows what. Djola was a part of this filthy exchange.

“Demon fog is slowing my people down,” Pezarrat said. He and Empire men laughed at northlanders who thought fog was demon’s breath.

Another minute without murder seemed impossible.

Djola tried to pull fire again. Kyrie made it look simple—a flick of a finger and she had a spark. Heat was everywhere. He needed to entice enough of it to—“Fatazz!” A ball of sparks burnt his hand. He threw the heat into the waves. Painful sparks dribbled from his fingers. He had yet to master chill hands or chill heart. Good citizens stepped away from his antics, alarmed.

Pezarrat smirked at their fear. “Conjurers get restless in fog.”

Djola played the clown, splashing in a water barrel, muttering Anawanama. Kyrie knew how to call sparks and stay cool. She knew how to sit on her cold mountain and let his family burn in Arkhys City. He should make his mind a fortress and lock up his heart. Kyrie did that years ago when assassins poisoned the man she loved.

Lahesh conjurers spent a lifetime mastering Xhalan Xhala. Djola didn’t have a lifetime. A mind-heart fortress might be the trick he needed for chill hands and heart, for feeling the motion in stillness, sensing truth in a lie, and changing the unknown into the known. Steam poured from the barrel and he groaned. Fingers were still on fire. Flesh didn’t burn away, yet that’s how it felt.

The good citizens ignored Djola. Pirates led a chain of Zamanzi onto the boat: girls who had yet to bleed and boys with high voices and smooth faces. Wounds festered around their chains. Mucous dribbled from noses. Djola avoided bloodshot eyes. As the flagship headed out, the children spewed on one another. If sold to the water, they’d have to get over that or puke themselves to death. Djola’s Anawanama mother had slaved in a mine. She escaped to Arkhys City slums and died coughing up mine dust. What would she think of her son now?