“S-Sorry,” Adukeh whispered. “B-But why d-do we need a b-boat? Wouldn’t traveling by l-lodestone be f-faster?”

“Not where we’re going,” I muttered.

Somewhere in the dark, a vessel waited to carry us to the Wanguru Fortress of Djbanti, where I hoped to convince the empire’s nobility to relinquish the crown’s resources for good. I still wondered if accepting Zuri’s offer of a ride had been a mistake.

Zuri’s home court, the Wanguru Fortress, lay at the intersection of Oluwan, Swana, and Djbanti. Any stop on the continent’s chaotic network of lodestones would place us too far away . . . and leave it to Zuri to own the largest smuggler’s barge this side of the Olorun.

“Why can’t you just whisk us to the fortress with those stones in your arm?” I’d asked him.

He had winced and smiled. “Because unlike the Crocodile, Zuri of Djbanti is not a dashing sorcerer, and must be seen traveling like a mortal.”

I glanced at the scrap of calfskin in my hand, scrawled with his clipped, elegant handwriting: Seventh boardwalk. The Tsetse Fly shoves off at midnight.

I counted the rickety docks, arriving quickly at the right one. A long, low vessel floated in the murky water, lamps and oars dangling off the sides. A shirtless man, dark and ripple-backed, waited in plain trousers near the gangplank. He turned, and his slow, broad smile flashed in the gloom.

“Glad you made it, Idajo.”

I swore under my breath. Even in peasant clothes on a foggy, brine-covered dock, Zuri of Djbanti was maddeningly beautiful.

“Put a shirt on,” I grumbled. “The mosquitos will eat you alive.”

“I’m wearing salve,” he countered, leaning his neck to my nose. “Eucalyptus. Can’t you smell it?”

I could. It smelled delicious, which made my scowl deepen.

He laughed, and then raised his eyebrows. “You brought guests.”

“Adukeh’s the opening act of our Pinnacle,” I said, patting her shoulder. “As for the guards and attendants . . . well. I’m not passing into your clutches without backup.”

His smile widened. “Smart decision. Welcome aboard.”

The Tsetse Fly appeared to be a sleepy cargo barge, deck filled to bursting with barrels of oranges, kola nuts, and palm oil. When I squinted, however, iron objects glinted from beneath the piles of fruit: weapons for Zuri’s secret army of commoners. I quickly looked away, ordering my entourage belowdecks.

“Aren’t you going below too?” Zuri asked as the ship shoved off, deck thrumming rhythmically beneath us. Drummer boys played at the ship’s bow, syncing a team of muscled rowers. With a groan, the Tsetse Fly embarked into the night.

“I need to practice my Pinnacle speech,” I said, then cringed as needles shot between my eyes. “Besides . . . I don’t sleep much these days.”

He nodded with approval. “Oppression doesn’t rest. So why should we?”

I snorted, thinking he was joking . . . but his mouth remained serious. “I mean”—I smiled uncertainly—“you know we have to sleep sometime, right? We’re not immortal.”