My blood runs cold. I whip around, unable to hide my fear. Run by the king’s army, the stocks act as our kingdom’s labor force, spreading throughout all of Or?sha. Whenever someone can’t afford the taxes, he’s required to work off the debt for our king. Those stuck in the stocks toil endlessly, erecting palaces, building roads, mining coal, and everything in between.
It’s a system that served Or?sha well once, but since the Raid it’s no more than a state-sanctioned death sentence. An excuse to round up my people, as if the monarchy ever needed one. With all the div?ners left orphaned from the Raid, we are the ones who can’t afford the monarchy’s high taxes. We are the true targets of every tax raise.
Dammit. I fight to keep my terror inside. If I’m forced into the stocks, I’ll never get out. No one who enters escapes. The labor is only supposed to last until the original debt is worked off, but when the taxes keep rising, so does the debt. Starved, beaten, and worse, the div?ners are transported like cattle. Forced to work until our bodies break.
I push my hands into the chilled seawater to calm my nerves. I can’t let Baba and Tzain know how frightened I truly am. It’ll only make it worse for all of us. But as my fingers start to shake, I don’t know if it’s from the cold or my terror. How is this happening? When did things get this bad?
“No,” I whisper to myself.
Wrong question.
I shouldn’t be asking when things got this bad. I should ask why I ever thought things had gotten better.
I look to the single black calla lily woven into the netted window of our hut, the only living connection to Mama I have left. When we lived in Ibadan, she would place calla lilies in the window of our old home to honor her mother, a tribute maji pay to their dead.
Usually when I look at the flower, I remember the wide smile that came to Mama’s lips when she would inhale its cinnamon scent. Today all I see in its wilted leaves is the black majacite chain that took the place of the gold amulet she always wore around her neck.
Though the memory is eleven years old, it’s clearer to me now than my own vision.
That was the night things got bad. The night King Saran hung my people for the world to see, declaring war against the maji of today and tomorrow. The night magic died.
The night we lost everything.
Baba shudders and I run to his side, placing a hand on his back to keep him upright. His eyes hold no anger, only defeat. As he clings to the worn blanket, I wish I could see the warrior I knew when I was a child. Before the Raid, he could fight off three armed men with nothing but a skinning knife in hand. But after the beating he got that night, it took him five moons before he could even talk.
They broke him that night, battered his heart and shattered his soul. Maybe he would’ve recovered if he hadn’t woken to find Mama’s corpse bound in black chains. But he did.
He’s never been the same since.
“Alright.” Tzain sighs, always searching for an ember in the ashes. “Let’s get out on the boat. If we leave now—”
“Won’t work,” I interrupt. “You saw the market. Everyone’s scrambling to meet the tax. Even if we could bring in fish, whatever spare coin people have is gone.”
“And we don’t have a boat,” Baba mutters. “I lost it this morning.”
“What?” I didn’t realize that the boat wasn’t outside. I turn to Tzain, ready to hear his new plan, but he slumps to the reed floor.
I’m done.… I press into the wall and close my eyes.
No boat, no coin.
No way to avoid the stocks.
A heavy silence descends in the ahéré, cementing my sentence. Maybe I’ll be assigned to the palace. Waiting on spoiled nobles would be preferable to coughing up coal dust in the mines of Calabrar or the other nefarious channels stockers can force div?ners into. From what I’ve heard, the underground brothels aren’t even close to the worst of what the stockers might make me do.
Tzain shifts in the corner. I know him. He’s going to offer to take my place. But as I prepare to protest, the thought of the royal palace sparks an idea.
“What about Lagos?” I ask.
“Running away won’t work.”
“Not to run.” I shake my head. “That market’s filled with nobles. I can trade the sailfish there.”
Before either can comment on my genius, I grab parchment paper and run over to the sailfish. “I’ll come back with three moons’ worth of taxes. And coin for a new boat.” And Tzain can focus on his agb?n matches. Baba can finally get some rest. I can help. I smile to myself. I can finally do something right.
“You can’t go.” Baba’s weary voice cuts into my thoughts. “It’s too dangerous for a div?ner.”
“More dangerous than the stocks?” I ask. “Because if I don’t do this, that’s where I’m headed.”
“I’ll go to Lagos,” Tzain argues.
“No, you won’t.” I tuck the wrapped sailfish into my pack. “You can barely barter. You’ll blow the entire trade.”
“I may get less coin, but I can protect myself.”
“So can I.” I wave Mama Agba’s staff before tossing it into my pack.
“Baba, please.” Tzain shoos me away. “If Zél goes, she’ll do something stupid.”
“If I go, I’ll come back with more coin than we’ve ever seen.”
Baba’s brow creases as he deliberates. “Zélie should make the trade—”
“Thank you.”
“—but Tzain, keep her in line.”
“No.” Tzain crosses his arms. “You need one of us here in case the guards come back.”
“Take me to Mama Agba’s,” Baba says. “I’ll hide there until you return.”
“But Baba—”
“If you don’t leave now, you won’t be back by nightfall.”
Tzain closes his eyes, stifling his frustration. He starts loading Nailah’s saddle onto her massive back as I help Baba to his feet.
“I’m trusting you,” Baba mutters, too quiet for Tzain to hear.
“I know.” I tie the worn blanket around his thin frame. “I won’t mess up again.”
CHAPTER THREE
AMARI
“AMARI, SIT UP STRAIGHT!”
“For skies’ sake—”
“That’s more than enough dessert for you.”
I lower my forkful of coconut pie and push my shoulders back, almost impressed by the number of critiques Mother can hiss under her breath in one minute. She sits at the top of the brass table with a golden gele wrapped snug around her head. It seems to catch all the light in the room as it shimmers against her soft copper complexion.
I adjust the navy gele on my own head and try to appear regal, wishing the servant hadn’t wrapped it so tight. As I squirm, Mother’s amber eyes scan the oloyes dressed in their finest, searching for the hyenaires hiding in the flock. Our female nobility paste on smiles, though I know they whisper about us behind our backs.
“I heard she’s been pushed to western quarters—”
“She’s far too dark to be the king’s—”
“My servants swear the commander’s carrying Saran’s child—”
They wear their secrets like glittering diamonds, embroidery woven through their lavish buba tops and wrapped iro skirts. Their lies and lily-scented perfumes taint the honeyed aroma of sweet cakes I am no longer allowed to eat.
“And what is your opinion, Princess Amari?”
I snap my head up from the heavenly slice of pie to find Oloye Ronke studying me expectantly. Her emerald iro sparkles bright along her mahogany skin, chosen precisely for the way it shines against the white stucco of the tearoom walls.