“Ursua couldn’t find any recruits to go with him willingly—most men considered the mission certain death. But the prisons were full of criminals eager to risk the trek in exchange for their freedom, and Ursua was happy to have them.
“When his pack of vagrants finally arrived at Bayano’s largest palenque, Ursua realized he couldn’t take it by force. Instead, he promised the Cimarrons peace, threw them a feast, and drugged their wine. Bayano woke in chains, and he and his followers were sold back into slavery soon after.”
Isaura winced—genuinely, as far as Haru could tell. “And you named the palenque after him to remember that?”
“In part. There’s much to celebrate about what he accomplished. But we must remember why he failed too: you can’t trust Espans.”
“Then why do you trust me to help you?”
Haru imagined Jaxat flashing a wolfish smile at this. The ropes hadn’t loosened, but she kept tensing and untensing anyway.
“I wouldn’t,” His Proxiness said, “if I didn’t have something you want.”
Isaura exhaled audibly. “I’m still waiting to hear your price.”
“My price is that you enable the ascension of a new king.” Jaxat let the implication hang in the air for a moment before elaborating. “I know you can do more than dowse wells. Bataru told me how you stopped arrows on the coast. It’s not hard to imagine you drawing water in less-defensive ways. Perhaps by drying an old man’s throat?”
“You want me to destroy any chance of peace,” Isaura said slowly.
“For your boy.”
“For my boy … Won’t your raid have done that already?”
“Not forever. Nothing had been agreed to. Demba might even use it as an example of what will keep occurring if no peace is granted. No, we need a change in leadership.”
“A change to your leadership.”
“If the Prophet smiles on me.”
Haru only just stopped herself from scoffing. What a blackmailing snake … Hang on. Was the rope around her right wrist slackening?
Isaura exhaled again, louder than before. “And if I agree to help you, how do I know you won’t raise your price after I’ve paid it? I’ve already given you three wells, and yet you haven’t let me go.”
Jaxat tapped Mingli’s knife. “If you fulfill your end of the bargain, I assure you—”
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Isaura said, interrupting with a force that made Haru grin. “You will let me go now and give me my son. I will entrust him to Amadi, who will take him to a safe place. And then we can talk about your change in leadership.”
More tapping on the knife. “I will entrust him to Amadi,” Jaxat countered eventually. “Directly to Amadi. And you will help me before joining them.”
“Not without seeing Shoteka in Amadi’s hands.”
Another tap. “Tomorrow morning, then. In the square. I need to judge your ‘friends’ there anyway.” Jaxat jerked a thumb at Haru and Jie. “Everyone will see your son restored to you … after I give him a star.” He reached up to brush the bit of bone hanging from his neck. “A very special, honorable star. A star that tightens at even the hint of betrayal.” His hand moved from the bone to his throat and squeezed, ever so slightly.
Isaura’s eyes blazed with a fury that outclassed every glare she’d given Jie and Haru combined. “If you so much as indent his skin …”
“I keep my promises,” Jaxat said as he rose. “See you keep yours.”
Haru wondered why he didn’t just do his own dirty work. Would it really be that suspicious if Demba died after being pricked by a tiny piece of bone? Maybe. Or maybe Jaxat wanted an Espan to be the culprit, to ensure the other runaways wouldn’t accept a peace.
“The easterners,” Jaxat mused, two steps from the door. “Do they speak Espan? Or is it just the one?”
Isaura opened her mouth to reply, then hesitated.
“Just me,” Haru answered for her, tensing her right arm as much as she could.
His Proxiness walked back to the center of the room. “I suppose you followed that, then? Understood every word?”
She met his gaze, projecting as much calm as she could muster.
He switched his grip on Mingli’s knife. “I’ve been wondering how sharp this is. And we can’t have you spreading nasty rumors. Stick out your tongue.”
Chapter Nineteen
Needles
Jie winced as Jaxat brought the knife closer to Haru’s face and barked another order. The Nippon bared her teeth.
“What’s happening?” Jie asked.
The Nippon clamped her lips shut, closed her eyes, and hummed.
It didn’t make her faster—not with that star needled into her right hand. Yet she still managed to rip her arm free of the ropes. Just not in time to stop the Afrii from smashing a fist into her jaw and forcing it open. Or to prevent him from reaching in her mouth and grabbing her tongue.
Or to keep his knife from slashing down, sharp and gleaming and—
“Stop!” Isaura yelled. The word was Espan, but Jie had heard it before, and even if she hadn’t, the meaning was clear: upon hearing it, Jaxat halted his swing a reed’s width above Haru’s tongue.
There the blade hovered while he and Isaura argued. Then Jaxat stepped back and pointed his knife at the Nippon, who responded with something that sounded like a promise. The Afrii left the house, and another came in shortly after to retie Haru.
* * *
“Isaura demanded that no one but her be allowed to punish us,” Haru explained later. “And made me swear on my little samurais’ lives that I wouldn’t reveal Jaxat’s plans to the palenque.”
“She saved you,” Jie reflected after a moment.
“My tongue, at least.”
“She didn’t have to do that.”
“No. She didn’t.”
Yet the Espan had done it anyway, protecting a stranger who’d betrayed her. From a position of weakness, no less—she’d been bound and warded before a monster of a man, helpless except for the power of her voice. Isaura had shown her true self in that house, shown her bravery, her honor, her fairness.
This was the woman Jie had wronged. This was the woman whose child she’d stolen.
But not on her own. Her brother had confused her, addled her mind with an ability she hadn’t known he possessed.
“Why?” she asked him the next morning as he and Chase were brought to stand next to her and Haru in the courtyard, all four still wrapped in rope.
Da studied her face, closed his eyes, and sighed. “You know why.”
“No, I don’t!” Had her hands been free, she would have slapped him. Or grabbed him by the shoulders and shaken him. Or shoved him. Maybe all three. “I don’t know why you stole a child. I don’t know why you made me believe it was mine. I don’t—”
“For you, Jie.” He opened his eyes. “To help you.”
“Not like this. Why would you ever think I’d want to be helped like this?”
“Because there was no other way.” Da motioned toward the other end of the courtyard. “I’ll explain everything later. For now, I need your help. We need to give Bolin back.”
Jie didn’t want to follow her brother’s gaze, but a flicker of movement in the direction he’d indicated drew her attention: Jaxat had arrived, and next to him was an original woman holding the most beautiful child that had ever drawn breath. He looked scared. But when he saw Jie, he smiled hugely and waved his tiny arm.
It nearly knocked her down.
But she steadied herself, momentarily grateful for how the ropes’ tightness further stiffened her braces’ support, and smiled back, doing her best to hide any trace of guilt or grief. “His name is Shoteka,” she said once she found her voice. “Not Bolin. Shoteka.”
* * *
At first, it seemed like the trial would go quickly.
Amadi and Isaura entered the courtyard twenty or so feet to the right of Jaxat and his wife. Rope still snarled Isaura’s wrists, and her gait wa
s uneven—Haru had overheard something about the Espan suffering a headwound. But it was clear she had only one thing on her mind: Shoteka. Her eyes never left him.
Would she kill this Demba, the runaway king, to get her son back? When Haru had recounted the conversation with Jaxat last night, Jie hadn’t been certain. But seeing how Isaura looked at Shoteka, there could be no doubt. She would do anything for him.
As she should.
In low tones, Amadi spoke briefly with Jaxat, who looked at Da and nodded. Then the King’s treacherous Proxy strode into the center of the courtyard, and the nightmare began.
“By now,” Jaxat said, according to Haru’s translation, “those of you who weren’t part of the raid know it went well. Very well.”
Several members of the audience, including the giant Afrii from the silver train attack, cheered from the courtyard’s wooden benches.
“Our allies,” Jaxat continued, gesturing to one of the Anglo pirates in the crowd, “fought bravely against the Espans, as did we. It was a great victory.”
More cheers.
“Our reward was rich. But with it came something unexpected: a child, and a dispute over his parentage.”
Jaxat’s wife held up Shoteka.
“Two groups claim him, but neither’s blood is obvious in him. Still, in deference to our friend Amadi, I would resolve this matter now.” Jaxat turned to Da. “Da of the Han, the boy was in your party’s care when we took the silver train. Is he yours?”
Da cleared his throat. “No.”
As Haru translated his answer, Jie’s stomach cramped, twinging as if a crude acupuncture needle had been jammed into a false entry point in her side, puncturing her qi rather than channeling it.
Jaxat pointed at Isaura. “Did you take the boy from her?”
“Yes,” Da said softly.
Another needle stabbed into Jie.
Jaxat turned to Isaura. “Isaura of the Espans, is this boy yours?”
She didn’t hesitate: “He is.”
A third needle.
“Then—”
A new voice cut in: “What does he have to say about it?”
All eyes turned to the Anglo pirate Jaxat had singled out earlier.
“Your pardon,” the pirate said, bowing his head. “But the scarred bloke with the easterners—what’s his part in this?”
Jie could hear the disdain in Haru’s voice as she translated the pirate’s question. It seemed a clear case of a white man willing to believe only another white man.
Chase glanced at Jie before answering. His expression said, “I’m sorry,” but his mouth said, “The boy is Isaura’s.”
A fourth needle, the largest yet. Losing Shoteka hurt enough on its own. Must her body magnify the pain?
Jaxat swept his arms in a semicircle. “There you have it. Isaura, I realize now that you rushed my wife because she held a child who’d been stolen from you. And the wells you dowsed proved the grace of your magic. Please allow me the honor of restoring your son to you.”
More needles; endless needles.
And sight.
Jie blinked as the enormous Afrii from the raid offered Amadi a knife, who wasted no time using it to cut the Espan’s ropes. Yet the pinpricks of light were still there, overlaying her vision and marking Amadi, Chase, Isaura, Da, and Jaxat as wu. Faintly, but unmistakably.
She was mapping.
There was no time to ponder it, however. Jaxat had held out a hand to halt Isaura’s wobbling advance. “First,” he said generously, “I would give him a gift. A sign of our respect for him and you, and a mark to remember his time here.” The King’s Proxy tapped the ugly star-bone on his necklace …
And the King stepped into the square.
Jie knew it was him as soon as he threw back his poncho’s hood. Partly because Haru translated several people in the crowd murmuring “The King,” or “He’s here,” or “Demba.” Partly because the Afrii’s weathered face was sculpted with lines of wisdom and majesty.
But mostly because, upon seeing him, Jaxat blanched, and his hand strayed toward his knife. Only for a second, but long enough for Jie to notice—and by the looks of it, Demba as well.
The King’s Proxy recovered quickly, however. “Your Highness,” Jaxat said, his voice flecked with just enough enthusiasm to make it sound genuine. “Had I known you’d be visiting, I—”
Demba waved him to silence. “I had business in Panma City, and I thought I’d stop in Bayano on my way back. Especially once I heard about your unsanctioned raid.”
On the edges of the courtyard, a dozen heavily armed, poncho-clad runaways slipped into the crowd; the King must have brought his guard. The other runaways looked restless.
Jaxat bowed. “Naturally, the spoils are yours to do with as you please. After we divide them with our Anglo allies, of course.” He flicked a finger at the spot where the pirate had stood a few moments ago, but the white man had moved back to cluster with his comrades.
“Brace yourself,” Haru whispered. “This is about to get ugly.”
Jie nodded. The atmosphere seemed thicker now, spikier—as if needles filled the air and not just her side.
“‘Spoils,’” Demba said scornfully, moving within striking distance of his proxy. “Yes, we can speak of what you’ve spoiled in a moment. But you were about to pass judgment in my name?”
Jaxat began to say something in a tongue Jie didn’t recognize and Haru couldn’t translate.
“No,” Demba interjected in Espan. “I don’t like using a Eropan language any more than you do, but it’s the only one all of Bayano shares. Talk so everyone can understand.”
Jaxat bowed his head again. “My apologies. As I was saying, two groups of people claim this child, but we’ve determined who his true mother is. Her.” He pointed at Isaura, who’d crept a few feet closer to Shoteka.
Demba looked from one to the other. “There’s little resemblance, but if the other group has renounced their claim … So be it. Let him go to her.” He signaled to Jaxat’s wife to set the boy down, yet she only did so after her husband nodded, his face unreadable as he fingered the unused star-bone on his necklace.
But once Shoteka’s little feet touched the ground, Jie saw nothing but him.
He caught his balance, and she remembered helping him learn to walk in the back of the cart.
He took a tentative step forward, and she relived the first moment he’d nursed at her breast.
He cast a confused look at her—at her!—and she wondered if she’d ever see him again.
What wouldn’t she give to be ignorant of his true parentage once more, even for just a moment? To hold him one last time and believe he was hers … And would he be safe with Isaura? She was scrambling towards him with appropriate haste, but she’d already stumbled twice; her headwound clearly still bothered her. She also didn’t have her water to protect him from whatever violence was about to erupt. She needed to be wu again. They all did.
Jie clenched her jaw. She was bound, yes, but the ropes were just threads, and the needles only a frailty of her body. The real obstacle was the star inked into her hand, the shape that prevented her from mirroring, even with shamans all around her. The star was a formidable ward.
But not an impenetrable one. She was still mapping, for the first time in weeks, her mind at last clear of her brother’s purple haze. And if she could map, there must be a weakness in her ward. Maybe one of the star-bone’s points hadn’t gone deep enough into her skin. Or was it that the mole beneath her third knuckle overlapped one of the dots, marring the ink with melanin? It didn’t matter. She only had a few seconds to find the flaw and slip around it. Just this once—when it was never more important—she had to relocate her control and reflect the star on its maker. A little at first, and then as the ward began to falter and her strength increased, a little more, and a little more, until …
Yes. Jaxat cried out as she finished warding his wards, yelling something in his own tongue and clutching at his shells. But when
he whipped his arm around to stab a finger at Jie, he clipped Demba’s nose in the process. The King roared in anger and struck back while his ponchoed guards pulled their weapons and rushed forward.
Yet Jie was already running, humming to make herself fast, to make herself Haru. Fleet enough to outrun the chaos she’d caused. Quick enough to overcome Isaura’s head start and be first to the beautiful boy, lifting him out of danger by stretching her hands as wide as the rope still lashing her wrists together would allow.
There was no eluding the purple fog, though. When it rolled back in, reasserting Da’s edicts and insisting on another name for Shoteka, Jie could only whisper, “I’m sorry.”
And forget.
Chapter Twenty
Second Chances
Puta.
The word was the edge of Isaura’s rage, the frothing crest of the tsunami she longed to cast down on Jie after the Han moved with inhuman speed to snatch Shoteka.
Again.
She’d taken him again.
Puta.
As she lurched after Jie, grasping at the Han’s hair and missing by inches, Isaura had time to think the word one more time before the courtyard erupted with blood and magic. The blood began flowing as Jaxat’s men squared off against Demba’s. The magic swept in when Isaura tried to quench, realized she could, and guessed that Jaxat’s wards were down.
She knew it was true when Chase’s fire met her water in front of Jie, blocking the arrow-shaped jet that would have whipped through the Han’s right ear and out the left, blasting away everything between. The resulting steam didn’t stop Amadi from diving in, but Haru tackled him before his hands could close around Jie’s ankles.
“Puta!” Isaura shouted at Haru and her dead, lying eyes. All that talk of regrets and apologies and mind control—just words. Treacherous, self-serving words. She and Jie had merely been biding their time.
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