At the far end of the Omani table Em and Zurm are huddled together and whispering, occasionally sneaking quick peeks off in Kamelya’s direction. Zurm says “Look at the way the witch licks her lips. Betcha by the time it is all said and done she kills that Khwarezm diplomat and eats him.”

“No way,” Em replies, “she’ll sick that demon boy all over him, then grind the Khwarezm’s bones into dust and use them for her magic.”

“I’ll take your bet!” a sailor sitting beside them intrudes, thrusting a handful of gold coins on the table in front of them, “Cause the way I have it figured, the old witch is going to spell that land-lovin’ coward into cutting off chunks of his own flesh and hand feeding them to that servant beast of hers.”

Em and Zurm eagerly get out their own money as a few more sailors join the pot. As they quietly trade stories of myths and magic, they eagerly await the old witch’s next move.