“Your Federal Highness,” Baru protested, “I don’t understand. Would you refuse our help?”

“If you remain,” the Prince continued, softly, earnestly, “your fates will be entangled with mine. And at this moment I am doomed, doomed with all my house. You are my only hope of salvation. If you and I cannot find a common human bond—yes, Baru, you and I and your companion—then all of us will come to an end far worse than the sea.”

Baru’s skin crawled. She wasn’t superstitious. But her body might be.

“I was very rude to you on Moem.” The Prince bowed in apology. “I presumed to judge you for luring my friend Abdumasi to his doom. I see now that if there is no hope for you, there can be no hope for peace.”

Play along, Baru. Play along and see if you can understand. Magic is practiced in the world, whether you believe it or not; it is used to guard over sick children and to ward off the foxes from the coop. People believe in magic. The magic may not alter anything, but their beliefs still guide their actions.

“Your Federal Highness,” Iraji began, thick with fear, and had to stop to cough and hem until his voice uncreased itself, “what’s wrong? Why are you doomed? Perhaps we can help.”

“You can help, you can, you can, please.”

They reached behind them, where a cloth covered a woven basket-dish. Baru braced herself for the revelation of a hideous Oriati superstition—bugs to eat, or blood-brush calligraphy, or some other lurid ritual from the Old Continent. But Tau-indi whipped away the silk to reveal a puff of savory steam and a bowl of thick brown bread, full of almost-raw meats pounded full of spice, gauze-cut fish like pink tissue, candied fruits, fresh eggs, and at the center a clay pot of wine.

“Please,” the Prince said, earnestly, “will you sit and eat with me?”

Baru had to know. “What are we doing? Is this magic?”

“Yes, in a way, I think it is.” The Prince sat cross-legged by the bread bowl and began to fold up hot pitas to eat with. “My ship was attacked, as I’m sure,” they chuckled ruefully, “you’ve seen. But the worst of the damage is invisible, I’m afraid, and if it is not repaired, we will all end up worse than dead. I told you before that a wound in trim is growing around us, a wound that will devour all civilization on the Ashen Sea. You, sir, you were Oriati born. Do you know what I mean when I say a wound in trim?”

Iraji swayed. Fell down to his knees. “Yes,” he said. “I do … a wound like Kutulbha.”