I put my bowl down, jaw tightening. “It’s not just Djbanti,” I said bleakly. “I’ve read every report I can. Nobles in Mewe and Biraslov practically enslave their poor, all to make a profit on wool and ice blocks.”

“And so I invented the Crocodile,” he said, leaning closer. “Hit the nobles in their profits. No point using cheap labor if your product’s covered in blood. Or if your customers are afraid of getting doused when they buy it.”

I made a face. “Is it always blood?”

He grinned. “Depends. We use ground itchwort for wool. Live beetles are fun for rice, though that sometimes can go awry.”

I laughed, though my smile faltered. “You should be careful about tainting food. It may belong to greedy nobles, but those who buy it are probably poor—especially if it’s the cheapest option.”

His head tilted in thought then remorse. “You’re right. I didn’t even think of that. You were right about Olojari, too. If Malaki had truly destroyed that mountain, the damage would’ve been insurmountable.” He pierced me with a look that made my pulse skip. “That foresight—that attention to detail, the way you solve puzzles no one else sees . . . it’s why I want you, Tarisai.”

I nearly spit out my stew. “Excuse me?”

He shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Is that a problem? Don’t you want me too?”

“As a council brother,” I said slowly. “To fulfill my treaty with the abiku.”

“Yes, of course. What did you think I meant?”

My cheeks heated, and his grin spread like the crocodile he was. “I’d also like to be partners in crime,” he said. “It’s why I trusted you with my secret.”

“Partners? Doing what?”

He sat back, appraising me. “I want to dissolve the government of Djbanti,” he said at last. “The warlords, the Wanguru monarchy. All of it. I want to tear it down and replace it with something new.”

My eyebrows shot up. “You want to depose . . . yourself? From being king?”

“We did not always have kings in the central realms,” he said, suddenly restless with excitement. “At least, not in the way we see them now. Before the time of Enoba the Perfect, leaders were merely the hands of their people. Oluwan, Nyamba, Swana and Djbanti were ruled by nkosi—chiefs of small states, where even the poorest maize farmer had a say.”

“The rulers shared power,” I said, remembering the fantasy I had described to Dayo. “And made sure it flowed to everyone.”

“Yes, exactly.” He beamed at me. “And the foundation for change is already in place. The peasants of Djbanti are planning a revolt, selecting leaders among themselves. I’ve armed them when I can, though it’s hard to sneak weapons into warlord territory.”

I shook my head, impressed. “That’s incredible. But what do you need me for? Won’t it look suspicious for imperial forces to arm peasants?”

“I don’t need your weapons. I need—” He paused, considering his words carefully. “Your influence. You’ll be addressing my warlords when you hold the Pinnacle in Djbanti. Somehow, I think you’ll be very . . . persuasive.”