Chapter 11
Needing Majed and getting to Majed were different matters. It would be at least a fortnight before the winds changed, the
northeast monsoon beginning, and with it the southerly route from the Arabian coast to East Africa opening up. Like any sea-thief
of renown, I can make voyages against the prevailing season. It requires a skilled crew, a lot of tacking and coasting, and more than a bit
of luck. But with a new team and a barely provisioned ship, I decided to go first to al-Mukalla, a dull if well-supplied port
town used to readying ships for the journey down the East African coast.
Along with unexpected bonuses courtesy of Salima’s blackmail money, I gave the crew a week of leave to replace their sacked
possessions and purchase small items they could sell or barter along our voyage, such as tins of ghee, glass beads, and striped
Yemeni cloth. I set Hamid, the cook, off with instructions to not only be generous in replenishing our food stocks, but to
buy the fattest sheep he could find so we could properly feast before setting out.
Tinbu received similar largesse to buy matching sets of tubban and jubba for the crew, recruiting another half-dozen mariners among the pearl divers returning from the harvest in the Persian Gulf.
Oared galleys often drew suspicion, and I hoped the appearance of a uniformed, well-nourished crew might set the minds of passersby at ease that we were not pirates (which happened to be true, on this voyage, at least).
Add in the fact that Mogadishu was a genuinely fantastic city to visit—as cosmopolitan and exciting as Aden, but with better weather and fewer market inspectors—and most of the crew seemed happy when we departed, delighting in their new clothes and full bellies.
I spent the entire trip contemplating murder.
“I should have killed that woman the moment I laid eyes on her,” I groused, watching from the captain’s bench as my men adjusted
the sail. It was our second day at sea, the Hadhramaut coastline long vanished behind us. I pulled on the ropes for the left
rudder. “Shot her and her guards from the roof and dumped their bodies in the sea.”
“Too obvious,” Dalila countered, not glancing up from the small pouch of black powder she was measuring into a clamshell.
Whatever it was smelled terrible and acerbic, but she had ignored my efforts to pry into its contents. “You should have slipped
a poison into her food. Something long-lasting so she could have returned to Aden before dying of what would appear to be
natural causes. You would have gained a small fortune and never needed to leave your home. Alas, you did not bother to stay
in touch with me. I would have sent you samples.”
Tinbu climbed onto the deck, holding a large parcel of Abyssinian leather. He set it down on the bench and unwrapped the leather
mat to reveal a battered brass platter of grilled fish and pickles, spiced rice, and a few rehydrated ka’ak biscuits.
“For the record, I’m still happy you took the job,” he pointed out. “You know, on behalf of me and the rest of the crew not being crucified, cut
in half, and hung at the gates.”
“There is that,” I agreed miserably. “Now just tell me what ‘large island’ is guarded by white snakes, and we shall be squared
up.”
“It could be anywhere. Kish. Socotra. Dahlak. Maybe even Madagascar—you don’t get much larger than that. Can I take some of
this, by the way?” Tinbu asked, nodding at the platter.
I snapped a pickle, pretending it was Salima’s neck. “Go ahead.”
Tinbu parceled out some of the rice onto a wooden dish, dousing it in ghee and then climbing up to set the offering in a small shrine he kept on the galley roof.
My friend had returned to his faith after escaping slavery, not caring for the advantages conversion might have afforded him in this far more Islamized western half of the Indian Ocean.
Indeed, he had initially been wary of continuing with me, fearing a Muslim nakhudha would forbid him his rituals.
But I was not that sort of a nakhudha. Both my grandfather and father had impressed upon me from an early age that we shared
the sea with countless other peoples; if God had not meant for such diversity, he would have made us all alike. There was
also the very practical fact that bigoted nawakhidha did not often last long among the multiethnic crowd that made up most
crews.
And yet... “Tinbu, is that for your Lord Varuna or Payasam?” I asked after he finished praying. Though I didn’t see the
blasted cat now, it had become fond of napping on the galley roof, and because it was the least graceful feline God had ever
put on this world, falling off the roof when the Marawati rolled too much.
“Lord Varuna, among others.” Tinbu jumped back down. “The gods are less picky than Payasam and we could use all the boons
they have to spare.” He wrinkled his nose at Dalila. “Do I want to know what you are doing?”
“Not in the slightest,” she replied.
I pulled the platter closer, familiar enough with Dalila’s experiments that I could eat and ignore them. Hamid’s cooking was
decent, the rice slightly brackish from the mix of salt and sweet water used to boil it, the fish tossed with vinegar and
cumin. I glanced up to see Hamid doing a poor job of pretending not to watch me eat.
“He feeding the men the same?” I asked, popping a ball of fish and rice in my mouth.
“As per your command.” Tinbu lowered his voice. “You broke them out of prison and gave them all bonuses. They are appropriately enamored of their new nakhudha.”
“God be praised.” I nodded an affirmation to Hamid, who beamed a nervous smile in response that revealed the gap where I had
knocked out his teeth. “Speaking of being nakhudha... I need to have words with you.”
A hint of nervousness flickered in his eyes. “I thought we had agreed the carton of naft ended up being a good thing.”
“This isn’t about the carton of naft. I wanted to tell you, despite questionable decisions regarding illicit salvage, you
have done an admirable job as nakhudha in my stead. The Marawati is in excellent shape, the crew is well trained... I am proud of you, my friend.”
Tinbu beamed so brightly it made me fear I didn’t compliment his work enough. “Thank you. That means a lot, Amina. Also, please
consider staying on, because I despise the responsibility. The constant fretting over every detail. And the navigating . Do you know how complicated your charts are? I would rather maintain ships and be told where to sail them, not stare at
the stars all damn night.”
I snorted, returning to my food as I gazed upon the blue-green horizon and my bustling ship. The sea was calm and my crew
in good spirits, some singing as they finished with the sail, others making rope and trading items from their new personal
chests. It was a hot day, and I could not help but notice several of the men had shucked off their new cloaks, muscled limbs
glistening with sweat.
“Uh-oh.” Tinbu laughed. “Maybe you are staying on as nakhudha. You’ve got the look.”
I glanced at him. “What look ?”
“The I-wonder-which-of-these-fine-men-might-make-for-a-good-husband-number-five look,” he cackled. “Don’t deny it. I know
you too well. What about Tiny? He’s very sweet, and I can attest the name does not —”
“Oh, shut up,” I said with a flush. “I am denying it. I’m done with husbands.
” But claiming I was done with husbands was one thing; controlling my eyes when I hadn’t touched a man in ten years and now spent my days surrounded by some particularly well-formed ones wearing nothing but sailor’s briefs was more difficult.
A woman can lower her gaze only so often without tripping over her feet.
“What pleasures men bring are not worth the trouble.”
“I’ve heard that before.” Tinbu sat beside me, helping himself to a biscuit and watching Dalila, still absorbed in her work.
She had bound up the clamshell with the black powder inside, a piece of twine stuck out like the long tail of a rat. “All
right, Dalila, my curiosity has gotten the better of me. What is that?”
“Chinese salt mixed with a few additions. I’d been hunting after some for quite a while and recently found a supplier.” Dalila
placed the clamshell on the edge of the railing and then stepped back. She touched a burning twig to the twine.
I glanced up from my lunch. “Wait, isn’t Chinese salt what they use to—”
The clamshell exploded.
It happened so fast I could scarcely make sense of it. There was a resounding bang, a burst of fire, and then the two halves
of the shell went whizzing apart as though they had been struck by a bolt of lightning. One hurled itself into the sea while
the other flew directly underneath the main yard, narrowly avoiding punching a hole through the sail. Several of the sailors
shouted in alarm, and Tinbu leapt back so fast he fell off my bench.
Dalila let out a cheer. “It worked!”
“It worked ?” I gaped in disbelief. “You intended to make some sort of... of fire explosion on my ship? My wooden ship?”
She was already retrieving the pouch of black powder. “Yes.”
I lunged for the pouch, then thought better of touching it so violently. “God curse you. Is this why you only have one eyebrow?
Get rid of it. Now .”
“I think I know of this black powder.” Tinbu picked himself up, sounding traitorously fascinated. “In China, they shoot it into the sky for grand celebrations. I’ve heard it showers down in lovely sparks of light like a whole flock of falling stars.”
“They shoot it into the sky?” Dalila repeated, clearly intrigued.
“Indeed. Perhaps if we fastened it to a projectile...” His eyes lit up . “What about one of my arrows?”
I threw a fish bone in his direction. “Stop encouraging her!”
Dalila shot me an annoyed look. “You got to keep your naft.”
“It is not my —” Payasam chose that moment to leap down from some hidden spot on the galley and landed directly on my platter, scattering
fish and rice everywhere. “Damn it!”
Tinbu quickly scooped the cat away. “Do not mind her,” he cooed. “Once she has the Moon of Saba, she will be a lot less grouchy.”
Dalila groaned. “I knew you were going to fall for that Moon of Saba rubbish. It is nothing but a charlatan’s tale.”
“You’ve always been too quick to dismiss magic,” Tinbu chided. “Does a charlatan’s tale cause a man to choke to death on coins
that mysteriously appear in his throat? Was the last husband Amina set her sights on a character out of a charlatan’s—”
“My last husband was a monster ,” I cut in harshly. “And the reason I do not care whether or not the Moon of Saba exists. If someone was to wave it before
my eyes, it would not matter. We are not getting any more involved in the supernatural than we already have.”
That silenced them both for a moment, the dark reminder of the worst night in our shared history dimming the mood and making
the sun-filled day and melodies of the sailors seem distant.
Finally Tinbu spoke. “Then how do we fight a man who might have such power?”
It was a question that had haunted me since I watched Layth die. I had no answer.
“We outwit him,” Dalila said firmly. “We trick him. We fight in ways he could not see coming.” She tapped her bag of black powder, and I could not help but flinch, remembering the explosion a tiny fraction of it had just caused.
“Ways like this . Amina, you were the one to claim I had skills unlike anyone else you know . Let me use them.”
Tinbu glanced my way. “She has a point.”
I attempted to level my best nakhudha’s glare on them, but neither appeared particularly cowed—they knew me too well. And
Dalila wasn’t wrong. If Falco had access to the kind of blood magic that had killed Layth... we were going to need every
bit of criminal ingenuity we had.
“Fine,” I gruffly relented. “But no experimenting on the ship. And absolutely no mentioning fire explosions to Majed. This
reunion is going to be difficult enough.”