Baru spun that around in her head, considering the angles, and decided on the most likely scenario. A Morrow Ministry agent had buried the evidence of the Oriati attack fleet to try to avert war? Sensible enough. Yawa might be speaking to him right now.

“Is there anything I can do to make this go away?” the harbormaster asked.

“Sure.” Baru leaned up grinning on her desk. “Some people are going to come ask you some questions. Tell them the truth. Tell them there might be no date season this year, on account of fear of pirates.”

The harbormaster raised her chin. “I won’t drive the Families to a panic.”

“Yes you will. One day of panic for me to profit from … and I promise I won’t ever report this to Falcrest. Let them think the season’s ruined, and I’ll see that it isn’t.” She dropped a ten thousand note bond on the desk. “I’ll sign that over to you tonight. If you’re good.”

She waved at the two spies in the plaza outside, went down to her bravos at the base of the steps—and found them both, two very fit and self-possessed women, nonetheless terribly besotted, laughing and making big eyes at one Miss Iscend Comprine, who was demonstrating gymnastics while chatting in fluent Iolynic.

“Yawa,” Baru hissed, and turned, and—

*   *   *

“THERE you are.”

Xate Yawa’s voice sprang out of her blindness, close enough to brush noses. “Fuck,” Baru snapped. “Don’t do that!”

“Hello. I thought you might need a chaperone,” Yawa said. She had absolutely crept up to nose-distance of Baru just to frighten her. “The bank told me you’d gone to the post, the post to the harbormaster. I just had to ask for ‘the woman with the angry Maia face and the money.’”

She’d worn a canvas jacket and silk trousers, and her bright green scarf was so ghoulishly out of place that it looked like plunder off another woman’s corpse. “No!” Baru shouted. “I don’t need a chaperone!”

“Good, then, we’ll go together. Would you like to know how this island gets freshwater?”

“No…” But Baru really did.

“It’s all a matter of age,” Yawa said, taking her arm. “The years have chiseled the islands to a certain hardness.”

Baru groaned. “Oh, tell me more about the hardness of age.”

“Simple! The base of these pillars”—she pointed down, a thrilling reminder of their altitude—“must be the hardest and most impermeable stone, to resist the sea so long. That creates a cup against which freshwater aquifers can pool.” Yawa conjured a cup of her own from her pocket, a little cork travel thimble. “The old and hard supports the new and bountiful, hm? Together they survive.”

“You should be careful here. They might know who you are.”

“Of course they’ll know!” Yawa adjusted the bun of her hair. “Your dear grandmother, who resembles Xate Yawa by coincidence.”