The Final Strife

“Sylah, over here!” Kwame waved from their usual table.

She collected her food of steamed yams and bean stew and joined him.

“Did you hear?” His mouth was full of white mashed-up yams. “Efie of Jin-Gernomi got out a strike ago.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, they took her to the infirmary. Dehydration.”

“I wish there was a way we could tell Anoor that she’s made it, that she can come out now.”

“That’s the thing, isn’t it? Clever trial, you don’t know if what you’ve done is enough,” Kwame said.

“Only she and someone else are left, right? What do we know about him?”

Kwame shrugged. “Not much. He’s a captain in the warden army. Called Yanis Yahun. The betting houses have quite good odds on him. Much higher than Anoor, of course, but she might tip the balance after coming in in the top two.”

Sylah tried the stew. It needed more peppashito.

“Where’s the ’shito?”

“On the herbs rack at the back.”

The thought hit Sylah like a lightning bolt over the Marion Sea.

“Kwame.”

“Sylah.”

“You know your way around the kitchen, right?”

“I’d think so, been working here nearly every day for the past three years.” He gestured his hands wide as if surveying his own personal empire.

Sylah reached into her pocket and placed a vial on the table between them.

“How would you like to help Anoor win the trial of stealth?”

He grinned, the delight dimpling his pockmarked face.

“What do I need to do?”

Sylah outlined the plan, Kwame nodding deeply with each step.

—

When Sylah returned to Anoor’s chambers, Gorn was waiting.

“Did you find the Ghosting to help?”

“No, but I drafted in someone else,” Sylah said.

“Good, that’s good.”

Sylah smiled at Gorn. This was the most pleasant exchange they’d ever had.

“I think I’ll wait in Anoor’s bedroom.”

“Why don’t you help me polish the silverware?”