Shell snorted out a laugh. “I don’t think you liked anything on Maila.”

Nisong blew on her stew. “None of us did.” They hadn’t had enough awareness to like or dislike anything. She savored the rich, hot soup as it slid down her throat and made her eyes water. The crackle of the fire beneath the stewpot was a tiny reflection of the conflagration she’d made of the village. If that didn’t move the governor, she wasn’t sure what would. “We could be here for quite some time.”

Frond sidled up to her, whittling the driftwood into a bird in flight. “Sand – ah, sorry, Nisong. Did we try knocking?”

Nisong gave him a dry look. He shrugged. She put down her bowl and took up her cudgel, then went to the door, lifted a hand and knocked.

No response. Which was what she’d expected.

Wind licked at the back of her neck, a hint of cold and moisture with it. Dark clouds formed a backdrop to the brightness of the fires. She wasn’t about to give up, no matter how long the governor thought he could wait her out. Nisong had more patience than most.

It had taken time to ferry her constructs from Maila to an uninhabited isle, time to steal more ships and supplies, time to scout nearby inhabited islands and to gather more constructs to her cause. The last had been the easiest task. The poor creatures were lost, directionless, hiding from people that wanted them dead. A few kind words, a promise of some greater cause, and they were hers. They had a right to defend themselves. They had a right to punish those who saw them only as wolves to be hunted.

The first island had been easy. They’d stormed through, meeting very little resistance. On this one, the locals had put up more of a fight. Nisong supposed it was to be expected. They must have heard about what had happened on the first island and had told themselves they would not go down so easily. Petty island rivalries always meant that each one thought themselves better in some way than their peers.

She’d set her war constructs to round up the villagers, the bureaucrats to round up supplies and the spies to islands farther afield. The other constructs from Maila, the ones who also looked like people, took the torches to the houses. But Leaf, Grass, Frond, Shell and Coral had come out of the mind-fog first, had helped her commandeer the blue-sailed boat.

They were her friends.

She knocked again. “We know you’re in there,” she called out. A brief memory flickered: hiding in an empty cupboard, her older sister searching for her. Nisong blinked and it faded; the only thing lingering was the scent of old wood.