“They’re fine,” Djola declared. “The waves make them spew.” He tumbled down the ladder to sick bay, pushed past Orca, and downed a seed and silk potion. He stared out the porthole at the fog, waiting for the bad mood to blur. He sank into an almost pleasant haze till pirates dragged captives down the ladder and barged in the door.

“Stop.” Djola used a command voice and stumbled to the door. “Turn around.”

Pirates exchanged desperate glances. The old healer hid among empty barrels.

“Pezarrat’s orders,” the lead pirate said, a furry man with a muffled voice. “We got so many. Need to put them somewhere.”

Djola took a wide stance, blocking the entrance. “Not in here. Somewhere else.” Orca pushed past him and up the ladder.

Behind Djola, Vandana offered a dagger smile and a stronger accent than usual. “Every day, Djola is calling ornery wind and wailing haints to sails. He throws fire and freak ice storms at enemies. He loves the world, but he say, turn around, go back up.”

A woman pirate, scarred and missing a few teeth, stepped up. “I know you, poison master.” Djola didn’t know her. He tried not to know Pezarrat’s pirates. “Griots sing of your mother, a captive—yet one son a chief, the other a master. You’ve risen; so can they.” Djola spat on tales Azizi paid griots to spread. “We’ve both risen,” the pirate woman insisted. “Pezarrat stole me from Kaharta.”

“In the mines and brothels, they work you to death and pay nothing,” Djola replied. The captives were crying. A few slid to the ground. “Take them back up on deck.”

Orca came down the ladder with Pezarrat.

“I said everywhere except sick bay.” The captain waved the pirates away. “Get out of here before he turns you into weasels or slugs.” The pirates herded the captives to the ladder. “You arrogant rascal.” Pezarrat poked Djola’s chest. “I should sell you.”

“Who can afford your price?” Djola scowled. “Not even masters at Azizi’s table.”

“Those stingy cowards think I’d kill you for a few coins.” Pezarrat chuckled, then whispered in Djola’s ear. “In honor of your mother, I don’t capture Anawanama.”

Djola had Zamanzi blood too. That was a story he refused to share. He pointed at the children struggling up the ladder. “They’ll spread disease. We’ll all get sick, and there’s nothing I can do. I needed supplies before the last big raid.” He whispered, “You’re captain, but I wouldn’t take on more captives. Too dangerous.”

“You wouldn’t sell captives at all.” Pezarrat gripped Djola’s shoulders. “What’s in the floating cities that won’t wait till I make a little coin first?”