Djola tried to relax. His troupe would arrive at the bridge to the citadel before any afternoon storm. According to Kyrie, Urzula and Lilot were rebels. When poison winds roared and spectators and guards took cover, Djola’s troupe would slip across the bridge to the cook’s entrance. Lilot had agreed to place markers to guide them. Kyrie knew every passageway in the citadel and Lilot’s jackals and hyenas avoided her. This sounded like a fine plan last night, sitting around a fire, drunk on wine. In the light of day, Djola worried that if they got past guards and dust demons, what then? Azizi might not listen to Djola or believe the proof in Vandana’s bag—Awa’s bag.

“You haven’t told me what cure you’ll offer Azizi.” Kyrie glared at Djola. “If you’re afraid to tell me, how will you persuade him?”

“I offer something he won’t refuse.” He looked at Awa and Bal. “A future.”

Kyrie shrugged. The alley twisted around a steep hill. Painted clay hovels huddled against the slope. Fanciful creatures decorated doorways and walls. Raintrees struck down in a void squall leaned toward the gutter. Djola stroked their leafless crowns. His mother claimed he’d been born in this slum, on a street like this.

“I brought Samina here one night, right after we met. Raintrees were in bloom all over the city…” Nobody challenged the Master of Poisons as he kissed his love under a fragrant raintree. They wore transparent robes, the delights of their bodies on full display. Witch women from the floating cities had no shame. Djola loved that.

“I can imagine.” Bal tapped Yari’s drum.

Soot charged ahead, sniffing crevices and jumping up on dim ledges. Fannie nudged Mango’s hefty haunches. No hurrying the elephant. Bal broke off drumming to nock an arrow. Red-robed acolytes ran up a side street away from Soot’s raised hackles. Ernold’s followers. Kyrie held a ball of fire. Acolytes snatched hapless souls from alleyways to bleed. Bal aimed at boots crunching stone on a ledge above them. A woman—assassin?—raised her hands and ran by. Bal pouted at Djola. This made no sense. Protecting him from bad people was what Bal had always wanted to do. “What does sacred shapeshifter mean?” vie asked again.

Djola groaned. This Bal, who probably wasn’t his Bal, was as bad as Awa, digging at him, questioning everything, never giving up.

“Abelzowadyo.” Bal chewed the word and scanned the alley. “Poetry ignites our spirits.” Vie let loose two arrows, pinning a red-robed acolyte to the doorway where he lurked. A weapon clattered from a wounded hand. The acolyte howled. Bal saluted him. “On a festival day, I take your pride and leave you your life.”

Djola sighed. Alley rats would have the acolyte’s life.