Wait a moment. Had Baru misspelled her name? The letter was addressed to “Lieutenant Aminota.” Was Baru hurt?

“What the fuck,” Aminata whispered, “is going on up there, Baru?”

No one had a clear view of Aurdwynn this year past. The navy was silent. Advance mentioned unrest, disrupted markets, travel restrictions. But there was always samizdat, the rumors spread by illegal presses. Samizdat said Baru had changed sides after being recalled to Falcrest, that Baru had pretended to be recalled in order to change sides, that Baru had married a king, that Baru had declared herself queen, that Baru had beaten in Governor Cattlson’s head in a duel, that Baru had eloped with a heartbreaking beauty of a duchess and married her and her husbands.

All everyone seemed to agree on were the dead sailors.

A flotilla of navy tax ships had vanished at Welthony Harbor. The names of the ships had been struck from the List. The names of the crews had stopped appearing on the Navy Advance bulletins.

Aminata couldn’t believe Baru had been part of that.

Of course, she hadn’t believed Baru would forget to write for three years, either.

She pressed the letter open against the wall.

To the Oriati Lieutenant who I know is close to my lord, I write this by the mercy of my captor, who hast permitted me a final inscribtion on the eve of the voyage which I hope will end in my death. Instead of a will I leave this letter …

Huh. Strong handwriting, but the writer could hardly spell, so— Aminata groaned. It was just convict mail. Convicts got a day to write free letters, and often they pissed into the Republic’s mail circuit in hopes of turning a sympathetic ear. No doubt some prisoner in Aurdwynn had mistaken Aminata, who’d once served as a bank auditor, for a wealthy and merciful woman.

So it wasn’t from Baru after all.

Her old friend had forgotten about her. Just like everyone else.

Aminata left the letter in her mail slot, to deal with when she got home.

*   *   *

“WHAT is the Cancrioth!” Midshipman Gerewho roared. “Tell me!”

He snapped a cane rod against the prisoner’s bare left foot. The man shrieked a raw failing shriek, his throat too ripped by screams to hold a meaning. Cats made sounds like that, Aminata thought. Not people. She wanted to torture cats even less than men.

Gerewho caned him again, twice, quickly. “Tell me! Who are they? Where do they meet?”

“He’s really overdoing it,” Faroni oyaSegu fretted, alongside Aminata in the oversight room. “I won’t have anything left to befriend.”

“He hates the poor fucker.” Aminata sighed.

“Can you blame him? It’s Lonjaro men like that”—meaning the prisoner—“who are the reason Lonjaro men like him don’t get respect.”