Fannie isn’t lulled by this tranquility. She stays alert. At the riverbanks multiheaded giants with tree trunk legs and cloud-silk robes dance around a warhorse from Holy City. At such a distance, vision is vague. Fannie rears, ready to fight foes or show allies the measure of her fury and power. From years on the battlefields, she knows masked carnival players are unpredictable and dangerous, but warrior-clowns also might possess conjure Awa and Djola need.

A good masquerade could save you from death.

2

Eishne, Festival of Memories

“I told you,” Djola sputtered at Bal. “Abelzowadyo means sacred shapeshifter.”

Desperate, exhausted, and not quite right in his mind, Djola bounced into Arkhys City’s sprawling market on an elephant’s back. The market was a city within the city. Wading through clouds of dirt and dung, gawking at stalls, animals, and people from everywhere, he felt as flimsy as a forgotten ancestor. Vendors setting up shop cheered carnival rogues making a grand entrance.

Bal stood on a high-stepping mare with ribbons in a red mane and juggled four blades. Warhorse or Shadow Warrior never crossed their minds. Awa and Soot wore identical headdresses with feathers, bells, and glittery fur. They could have been Lahesh tricksters of old. Kyrie sat in front of Djola, wearing patchwork robes, her silver hair concealed in purple cloth. Mountain Vévés on cheeks and brows looked like face paint. Oohing and cooing, the witch of Mount Eidhou painted a yellow snake on Mango’s brow. Djola’s lip curled. Rage at Kyrie was maybe unjust, but Kyrie should have persuaded Samina to live.

Crows circled overhead, squawking.

“Fleas and farts!” Sparks flew from Kyrie’s fingers at mercenaries with hungry eyes. “We speak Anawanama and listen to the birds. They’ll warn us.”

Hiding in Djola’s mother’s tongue to pass as carnival players was Awa’s idea. Djola felt ambivalent. Ancestor talk was powerful conjure, dangerous even. A player with a wheel heart, marble eye, and crystal foot might lose his wits talking Anawanama and never get an audience with the emperor. His old friend had banished him on pain of death. Were Djola and Zizi friends anymore?

“The library has a new wing.” Kyrie had been away as long as Djola. “The city shapeshifts. Abelzowadyo.”

“Not just buildings—” Nothing in Arkhys City felt as Djola remembered it. Dark-eyed towers loomed over them, whistling a reproach on the wind. Only the emperor’s citadel across the river was lit by tree-oil lamps. Without supplies from Holy City or Kyrie’s mountain, Arkhys City suffered cold, dark nights. The citadel’s hundred lights winked out all at once, an eerie spectacle. He wrinkled his nose. “Did it always stink?”