“What about the last time we came?” Djola asked.

“I was too ill. I’ve only heard stories.” Orca looked ashamed. Djola didn’t press him.

“I first came here years ago with Yari. I was a spy pretending to be a Sprite.” Djola repeated what Yari told him then: The floating cities were once four coastal capitals in the northlands surrounded by mountains of ice. An Iyalawo warned of hot winds melting the ice and deluges claiming green lands. City chiefs hired Lahesh tinkerers to rebuild fortresses, grain stores, mills, and libraries on barges near a cluster of islands—a volcano with peaks above sea level.

When Djola first saw metal-mesh domes, reed windcatchers, and giant sundials he thought he was smoke-walking. Yari said Lahesh tinkerers used Smokeland inspiration to design the cities. They mounted sturdy structures on even sturdier barges and anchored the new cities to Yidohwedo’s ridges in the shallow sea. They crafted bridges and underwater tunnels to connect the four capitals—east, west, north, and south. Pirates plagued early residents but eventually the floating wonders became the pirates’ safe haven. Lahesh diplomacy—marry the enemy.

“What are the cities called?” Orca asked.

“Speaking city names out loud is bad luck,” Vandana said. “Names were written somewhere and forgotten. Conjurers take care reading unknown spells out loud.”

Orca pulled his hair back and wove a single braid. “Why not just Yidohwedo?”

“Then, serpent’s name is bad luck too. Who wants that?” Vandana was staying on the ship. The bridges, domes, and waterworks reminded her of someone, some place that made her sad.

Orca stumbled behind Djola along the bamboo walkway, gawking at Lahesh wim-wom. He bumped into a fierce man with a parrot on his shoulder who chuckled at a wide-eyed pilgrim. Floating-city folks were short, stocky, and dark-eyed. Hair was dusted bronze, gold, or silver and cropped—tight beads like Pezarrat or peach fuzz like Urzula. Women had dots painted or tattooed around their eyes and reminded Djola of Samina.

His wife’s hair was a silver bush with mischievous streaks of red. Her tattoos were intricate, silver snowflakes that caught the light, and she was tall, of mixed heritage, like the woman approaching them. Blue-violet eyes disarmed Djola, daring him to be a better man. Dazed, he clutched a stranger and panted in her face. The silver-haired pirate woman broke free and frowned brown eyes at him. Djola mumbled apologies and the woman walked on.

“So many languages I’ve never heard. Wind-wheels and waterworks,” Orca exclaimed at a windcatcher pumping water. “Who builds such things?”