There are two great South­ern nations of this world: the once great, now insuf­fer­able Empire of Kayir, and the secre­tive and immigrant-wary Feria. And then there’s what’s in between.

They get marked on maps as “The Free Islands”, as if they’d got­ten together and decided on a name for them­selves. In real­ity, noth­ing could be fur­ther from the truth. There must be a thou­sand, ten-thousand islands or more, and no-one could see them all in a life­time. Volcano-blasted hills of ash, thick forests, long sweeps of sand, and ten thou­sand tribes, a thou­sand lan­guages, a hun­dred eth­nic groups. And me.

I’ve been tempted, along the way, to find a place to call home. But it’s not the life for me, of fit­ting in and work­ing with a com­mu­nity and hav­ing wives and chil­dren. No, I belong on the sea, hop­ping from one port to the next, never spend­ing a sec­ond night in the same place.

I sell charms and things, if you’re inter­ested. Bet­ter crops, fewer storms, relief from dis­ease. “Guar­an­teed to work, ask your friends!” Everyone’s heard of me, even on islands I’ve never been to before. The magic does work, though. More-or-less. Maybe it’ll give fish­er­men a break from stormy weather, but what it def­i­nitely gives them is hope. And when you have hope, nothing’s really so bad as it seems.”