Master of Poisons

by Andrea Hairston

Pirates exchanged desperate glances. The old healer hid among empty barrels.

  “Pezarrat’s orders,” the lead pirate said, a furry man with a muffled voice. “We got so many. Need to put them somewhere.”

  Djola took a wide stance, blocking the entrance. “Not in here. Somewhere else.” Orca pushed past him and up the ladder.

  Behind Djola, Vandana offered a dagger smile and a stronger accent than usual. “Every day, Djola is calling ornery wind and wailing haints to sails. He throws fire and freak ice storms at enemies. He loves the world, but he say, turn around, go back up.”

  A woman pirate, scarred and missing a few teeth, stepped up. “I know you, poison master.” Djola didn’t know her. He tried not to know Pezarrat’s pirates. “Griots sing of your mother, a captive—yet one son a chief, the other a master. You’ve risen; so can they.” Djola spat on tales Azizi paid griots to spread. “We’ve both risen,” the pirate woman insisted. “Pezarrat stole me from Kaharta.”

  “In the mines and brothels, they work you to death and pay nothing,” Djola replied. The captives were crying. A few slid to the ground. “Take them back up on deck.”

  Orca came down the ladder with Pezarrat.

  “I said everywhere except sick bay.” The captain waved the pirates away. “Get out of here before he turns you into weasels or slugs.” The pirates herded the captives to the ladder. “You arrogant rascal.” Pezarrat poked Djola’s chest. “I should sell you.”

  “Who can afford your price?” Djola scowled. “Not even masters at Azizi’s table.”

  “Those stingy cowards think I’d kill you for a few coins.” Pezarrat chuckled, then whispered in Djola’s ear. “In honor of your mother, I don’t capture Anawanama.”

  Djola had Zamanzi blood too. That was a story he refused to share. He pointed at the children struggling up the ladder. “They’ll spread disease. We’ll all get sick, and there’s nothing I can do. I needed supplies before the last big raid.” He whispered, “You’re captain, but I wouldn’t take on more captives. Too dangerous.”

  “You wouldn’t sell captives at all.” Pezarrat gripped Djola’s shoulders. “What’s in the floating cities that won’t wait till I make a little coin first?”

  Djola was desperate to talk to Babalawo wise men who might understand the shimmer storms that appeared out of nowhere and left poison desert behind. Librarians could help him pull fire and do Xhalan Xhala. Urzula could offer more news of his family than Grain’s letters. “I need supplies.” Djola lied with truth. “For healing, for repairs, and acid-conjure too. We couldn’t sink a bucket with what I have left.”

  “You exaggerate.” Pezarrat studied Djola. “Azizi spares my ships not just for the bribes I pay, but for you. After all this time. Why?” He searched Djola’s eyes. “You’re a snake, aren’t you?” He marched off.

  The woman pirate and furry man fell ill that night. Vandana saved the man, but the woman died a week later. Vandana muttered we-warned-you curses. Unnerved, Pezarrat unloaded the captives before Thunder River and decided against more northland raids. The fleet struck out for the floating cities in bad weather. Relief, hope, and fear wrung Djola out. He hung from the mast and wept into the wind.

  * * *

  For two weeks, Djola paced the upper deck, trying to pull fire and cursing high waves. He never managed cold around his heart. Sometimes he sat and stared at mist, muttering in Anawanama, trying to talk to the ancestors. Pirates avoided him. Orca and Vandana made him eat and drink and poured potions in him for sleep. This evening, cold rain pounded Djola’s head. Soft-spoken Orca shook him and mumbled.

  “Speak up,” Djola growled. “I can’t hear you.”

  Orca shouted, “Vandana says we should make you gloves to hold fire without burning your hands.” Djola squinted at flame-red palms and sparks flitting across the waves. Had he just called fire? Orca pulled him toward sick bay. “Vandana says you know a good mesh-spell.”

  “I’m the Master of Poisons. I know an antidote for everything except poison sand.”

  “I don’t want you to get sick or catch fire.” Orca was as sentimental as Vandana. Or maybe Pezarrat paid him an extra share to be kind. Orca hauled Djola to their bunk. “You’re shivering and too hot at the same time.”

  “What do you want?” Djola surprised them both with this question.

  Orca rubbed Djola dry and stuffed him in a warm cloak. “What can I want?”

  “I want to hold my wife, smell her skin, hear her scold me and the children. I want to see her ride the waves, half naked on a flimsy board. I’d love her wise counsel.”

  “Spies told Vandana, Queen Urzula travels to the floating cities to see her children.”

  Djola tensed. “Urzula knows everything that happens in Arkhys City. I’ll beg her for news of my family. Tell Pezarrat this secret so he can stop threatening you.” Djola sighed. “You must want something.”

  “I’ll think about that and then tell you.” Orca put salve on Djola’s angry palms. “Urzula is wise. She’ll help you, but—”

  “What? Tell me,” Djola commanded.

  Orca’s dimpled cheeks flushed. “You drink too much seed and silk. The last trip to the floating cities your mind was mush.”

  “Which trip? When?” Djola wanted to deny a trip to the floating cities, but he vaguely remembered a nightmare where he sputtered jibber jabber at Babalawos, who sneered at him. Had this happened? “No, I—”

  Orca hugged Djola. “This time you must be clear.”

  In exile a true friend was a treasure, even if he was a spy.

  10

  Goat Treats

  Two Goats bound from a crumbling ledge to the boulder wedged between a stone-wood tree and a piece of sky that fell long ago. The Goats love this climb. They lick salty minerals on the ancient tree then trot along a narrow ridge into the wind. Few creatures can reach them on the knife edge. The air is thin and cold; every step is slippery. They jump over a gap. Behind them the wild dog growls at someone. Big cats don’t roam this high, only the foolish dog.

  The Goats and dog have been friends since they were kids. The dog barks and lunges at a flurry of feathers. A golden eagle takes to the air, chirping and circling the peak. The Goats consider the bird, unafraid. Eagles only attack kids or a distracted goat, hoping to knock one down the mountain and feast. Not today. The dog keeps the eagles in the air. Yari, Awa, and Bal tramp up behind the dog, panting and chattering. They scramble and sweat.

  “This is my favorite peak,” Yari says.

  “Worth falling for?” Awa asks.

  “You climb like a goat,” Bal replies. “Don’t complain.”

  “Food is better at the top.” Yari talk-sings. “Berries taste like sunshine. Cloud mist is the best wine.”

  Awa and Bal snort and blow their lips like horses. “Goat treats.”

  The Goats jump to the peak and scurry down the other side. Dewclaws are sharp and prevent slipping. They reach a rocky terrace, bathed in sun. Scruffy shrubs hold down soil. The Goats eat leaves, twigs, berries, and crunchy lichen. The dog wiggles through a rock tunnel to the terrace, avoiding the knife edge and peak, treacherous for his soft paws. He licks the Goats’ faces, finds a warm rock, and drops down, panting. The Goats eat quickly, before Yari, Awa, and Bal arrive. They’ll eat too and then want to turn back. Beyond the terrace, this sunny side of the mountain is sheer rock, nothing for even Goats to hold onto. Golden eagles fly about, diving down to catch something for the bleating mouths in their nests.

  Bal and Awa come through the tunnel before Yari, who gets stuck. They each take an arm and pull. Yari tumbles out, laughing and jingle-jangling. The dog licks their faces and wags a bushy tail. The Goats jump over them, and they all chase each other around the terrace like kids. One Goat butts Awa into Bal. They stumble to the edge. Yari grips them and they sit with legs dangling over the mist. Everyone is laughing. The Goats put their heads on Yari’s shoulder. Vie scratches a neck and around the eyes. Yari gives everyone food from a bag. The dog gobbles h
is smelly treat quickly, some greasy, dead thing. The Goats get sweetgrass and herbs treats. Awa, Bal, and Yari eat orange fruit and berries. Red fire streaks across pale blue sky over distant mountains. Yari points, delighted. They sit quietly as bits of sky fall and land in Mama Zamba’s bosom.

  “Do you think falling stars could land near us?” Bal says.

  “They have already, don’t you think?” Awa looks around.

  Yari nods. “The stars are our ancestors.”

  Awa and Bal groan and giggle. “And there’s a bit of sky in everything.”

  “Even in you two.” Yari plays a drum.

  Awa shakes her head. “You say mountains, river, even dirt are ancestors.”

  “Don’t you feel that on the mountaintop?” Bal stuffs a berry in Awa’s mouth.

  “Always take a moment to feel who you are: star, river, dirt,” Yari says. Drumbeats match the words. Awa and Bal titter a second then close their eyes. Even the Goats and wild dog get caught in vie’s beats. When the song ends, Yari slings the drum over a shoulder and, full of sky and dirt, stands tall.

  The sun sinks and eagles vanish to their nests. The Goats are full, but not enough time to chew cud. Cold seeps from the mountain and the Goats are glad for wooly coats. Awa and Bal shiver and bleat. The wind blows mist over their flimsy hides. Yari scratches everybody one last time. Vie slithers through the tunnel, singing. The dog nips at Awa and Bal, chasing them into the passageway. The mountain is full of music.

  The Goats jump back over the peak and scurry along the knife edge. Still enough sun to see the way, but Yari lights a spark torch. Lightning on a stick. The Goats are used to this. Other creatures who prowl at dusk will avoid them. Awa and Bal cling to each other, sharing warmth. Their eyes glow in the dark. Yari’s glow too, like big-cat eyes. The Goats skip down the cliffs, singing to friends below. Bellies full, spirits high, their troupe prances into the enclave.

  11

  The Floating Cities

  The sea was rough all the way to the floating cities. At first, drinking less seed and silk, Djola’s mind got more muddled. He lost days, weeks to shakes and delirium. One morning, clouds dissolved to clear blue sky, clear blue sea. Orca and Vandana joined him in the rigging. He’d spent the night, staring at black sky, black water, slowing his heart when it raced. He let it pound now.

  A mountain range broke the seam between sea and sky, like the ridged back of a half-submerged beast. The floating cities were strewn around this island-beast in concentric circles. A beautiful sight. Coral reefs provided protection from storms, high waves, and enemy vessels. Pezarrat’s ships crawled in shallow waters. The floating-city peace patrol—fast, well-armed boats—escorted them to harbor, setting an excruciating pace. Cottony clouds fluttered around library towers at the mountain’s peak. Djola’s heart fluttered as he took a deep breath. If Samina and the children were dead, high priest Ernold, Money, and Water would have made a spectacle of their bodies. Djola broke into a smile and climbed down the ropes.

  Orca and Vandana followed. “What? What?”

  “My family still lives!” He waved at stern faces on the peace patrol, thrilled.

  “Another letter came?” Orca took Djola’s arm.

  “No,” Djola said. “But no terror-tales means they’re alive.” He would have realized this sooner if he hadn’t been addled.

  This morning, no drug stupor, no useless regret or rage. His family was under house arrest. Soon, he’d free them. Floating-city wise men would help solve the void-storm and poison desert mystery. Last time, he’d been addled, unprepared. Today he had detailed reports and maps. Librarians would know what book or griot to consult for Xhalan Xhala and they’d arrange an audience with Urzula.

  Azizi’s pirate queen was more powerful than anybody at the stone-wood table. She’d help rescue Samina and the children from mortal danger. “The last months were difficult. Today the weather changes.” He hugged Vandana and Orca and kissed their cheeks. Orca took out a blade and shaved Djola’s scruffy beard. He rubbed the stubble with pumice stones and massaged perfumed oil into smooth skin.

  “Lahesh call this mountain Yidohwedo”—Vandana pointed at the peak—“after the rainbow serpent who made the world from dung and water and taught the Lahesh to weave light and fold space.”

  “I see the rainbow.” Orca clutched Djola. “Two rainbows.”

  Docking twenty-one boats took forever. Orca danced around the deck in fancy pants and tunic made from Lahesh flame cloth, a gift from Vandana. His mouth hung open as they approached a bamboo walkway circling the cities. Triangular towers anchored the walkway and marked the hours on sundials inlaid with crystals.

  “Rainbow gods in the crystals are tricksters,” Orca said. “We should step lightly.” Sweetgrass bridges connected inner and outer walkways and swayed in the wind. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  “What about the last time we came?” Djola asked.

  “I was too ill. I’ve only heard stories.” Orca looked ashamed. Djola didn’t press him.

  “I first came here years ago with Yari. I was a spy pretending to be a Sprite.” Djola repeated what Yari told him then: The floating cities were once four coastal capitals in the northlands surrounded by mountains of ice. An Iyalawo warned of hot winds melting the ice and deluges claiming green lands. City chiefs hired Lahesh tinkerers to rebuild fortresses, grain stores, mills, and libraries on barges near a cluster of islands—a volcano with peaks above sea level.

  When Djola first saw metal-mesh domes, reed windcatchers, and giant sundials he thought he was smoke-walking. Yari said Lahesh tinkerers used Smokeland inspiration to design the cities. They mounted sturdy structures on even sturdier barges and anchored the new cities to Yidohwedo’s ridges in the shallow sea. They crafted bridges and underwater tunnels to connect the four capitals—east, west, north, and south. Pirates plagued early residents but eventually the floating wonders became the pirates’ safe haven. Lahesh diplomacy—marry the enemy.

  “What are the cities called?” Orca asked.

  “Speaking city names out loud is bad luck,” Vandana said. “Names were written somewhere and forgotten. Conjurers take care reading unknown spells out loud.”

  Orca pulled his hair back and wove a single braid. “Why not just Yidohwedo?”

  “Then, serpent’s name is bad luck too. Who wants that?” Vandana was staying on the ship. The bridges, domes, and waterworks reminded her of someone, some place that made her sad.

  Orca stumbled behind Djola along the bamboo walkway, gawking at Lahesh wim-wom. He bumped into a fierce man with a parrot on his shoulder who chuckled at a wide-eyed pilgrim. Floating-city folks were short, stocky, and dark-eyed. Hair was dusted bronze, gold, or silver and cropped—tight beads like Pezarrat or peach fuzz like Urzula. Women had dots painted or tattooed around their eyes and reminded Djola of Samina.

  His wife’s hair was a silver bush with mischievous streaks of red. Her tattoos were intricate, silver snowflakes that caught the light, and she was tall, of mixed heritage, like the woman approaching them. Blue-violet eyes disarmed Djola, daring him to be a better man. Dazed, he clutched a stranger and panted in her face. The silver-haired pirate woman broke free and frowned brown eyes at him. Djola mumbled apologies and the woman walked on.

  “So many languages I’ve never heard. Wind-wheels and waterworks,” Orca exclaimed at a windcatcher pumping water. “Who builds such things?”

  Djola leaned against a metal-mesh building that looked like an overturned basket—a merchant dome. “Lahesh tinkerers still make sure the cities don’t fall apart or get swallowed by the sea. My wife has Lahesh blood and wisdom. She kept our reeds singing.” A blast of white light blotted out Orca’s face. Djola shut his eyes. Heat burned inside his chest. He wanted to call fire and incinerate the island paradise. What had they done against void-storms to help his family and all the families on the mainland? Who in the floating cities spent a breath on Samina, one of their own daughters, who gave her body to him so tha
t pirates might live in peace?

  “Are you all right?” Orca held him up.

  “Yes,” Djola lied. “Let’s buy conjure supplies first.”

  The merchants stocked everything: Anawanama herbs and dyes, cathedral seeds and pulverized cloud-silk for Lahesh potions, barbarian dried mushrooms and holy water, Lahesh metal-working tools, Smokeland honey, wax, and herbs, rare earth compounds for acid-conjure, cloud-silk bandages, shadow-warrior spider cloth, even fermented midnight berries that cured night-blindness. Prices were fair, low even. Djola wasted no time haggling. He hired ferryboats to transport purchases to Pezarrat’s ship.

  Business complete, Djola led Orca across a sweetgrass bridge to a garden barge where Babalawos—the twelve wisest men in the world—and two Iyalawos gathered among voluptuous flowers to talk, argue, or let their minds wander. They wore violet robes and a weave of tight braids on their scalps. They sat on stools with Smokeland scenes carved on the sides and brandished iron staffs to evoke mountain and water deities. Speaking Lahesh, they welcomed Djola and Orca with fruit, nut-cakes, and honey wine.

  The two oldest Babalawos remembered Yari’s and Djola’s visits many years ago. Djola let them think he’d become a Green Elder and Orca was a Garden Sprite. The old men were eager to hear his reports of the world—the women too. A drummer thanked the crossroads gods and called for silence. Djola told stories of void-storms popping up from nowhere, from static and shimmer, to devastate the land. He noted range, frequency, and severity then offered his folded-space theory. They snapped fingers, approving of his insight.

  As he tallied animal and crop loss from poison desert, Orca held up scrolls of storms devastating green lands, painted in a vivid Anawanama style. Silver static and black ash made everyone itch.

  “How do you know all of this?” asked a Babalawo who was Djola’s age.

  “I’ve seen it,” Djola replied. “Kyrie gets reports to me.”

  Muttering, the Babalawos set down their cakes and honey wine. Djola cursed under his breath for letting her name slip. The drummer drowned out the grumbling. The eldest declared that idiots were ruining the mainland. Everyone agreed. They sang laments for Weeds and Wild Things on distant soil, but felt safe enough on their remote island paradise to joke: wild women and foolish men caused void-storms, and what cure for stupid people except to wipe them out? A catastrophe to cancel out disaster. Orca laughed at lewd gestures—people humping rocks.