“Doesn’t smell worse than Holy City.” Awa was in a terrible mood too—who could fault her? Offal from recent riots turned brown on stone streets. Sewers reeked, overflowing before reaching Thunder River or the sea. Crows descended on a corpse shoved to the roadside. Djola looked away, not wanting to know who’d been left to rot.

“This is worse than I remember.” He spat out the new taste of Arkhys City.

“We’ve changed too. All of us, storm weary.” Kyrie pointed at storm shelters along the buildings. Every stall had flaps to pull down.

Djola shook his head. “Who knows where the wind will blow?”

Mango squeezed past bedraggled farmers, thief-lord brigades, river pirates, miners, Green Elders, and pickpockets lifting purses. Today the Eishne Festival of Memories began. Two hours before the sun climbed over Mount Eidhou, the gates opened to everyone, even refugees fleeing Holy City. Djola cringed at tales of the Master of Poisons bringing down Hezram’s temple.

“Today is Eishne,” Kyrie shouted. “We’re all strangers, but woven from the same threads, so one family, and we remember ourselves.”

Azizi and Urzula commandeered an Anawanama sacred day to celebrate their wedding anniversary and twenty-eight years of Empire peace. According to Grain, Council wanted to cancel Eishne and keep out desperate hordes running from poison desert everywhere. Azizi insisted there was no better time to remind people who they were together than in the middle of strife and war. Merchants, librarians, and carnival players were thrilled. The Master of Money lusted after tax revenue. High priest Ernold hoped for converts to his temple or transgressors for the huts. Despite official approval, the festive atmosphere was unsettled. Crowds tearing through the gates were desperate for miracles. Djola’s troupe was little more than spit on a foul wind. It was folly to return to this festering place. How could they change the weather?

“Amazing.” Bal pointed at Kyrie’s painting artistry. When Mango waggled her trunk, the yellow snake wiggled on her forehead. Bal nudged Awa. “Mango looks like you, a snake on her brow.” Awa tried not to smile, but couldn’t help herself.

Mango flapped her ears, irritated at stalls, people, and animals between her and the carnival stage in the oasis garden. Elephants preferred plenty of room to maneuver. Mango turned onto a dim alleyway that meandered through northlander neighborhoods around the market. The crowd thinned to a trickle. Good citizens rarely ventured the back way to Thunder River—too dark, too dangerous, too long.