“No worries.” Bal scanned for danger. “We write tomorrow.”

“Is that so?” Djola wanted to argue with the green flecks in vie’s eyes. Not just Djola, many northland and floating-city folks had those eyes. Bal could have been Iyalawo Tembe’s child, given up to Green Elders when Tembe married Ice Mountain. “What story will you make?”

Bal shrugged. “Something better than today.”

“Yes.” Djola forced himself to look away from vie. “That’s usually the plan.”

“Whayoa! Come no farther!” An archer guarding a tree-oil manufactory yelled Empire vernacular at a child in a rag and raffia bird masquerade tumbling his way. Mercenaries along the stone wall behind him brandished swords and spears. The archer nocked an arrow and aimed. A crowd paused to gawk and mutter. “Move on,” the archer shouted, ready to lay down his life for pots of oil. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen. “The show is down at the oasis garden.”

The bird child nodded a wooden beak, flapped colored raffia wings, and backed away. A few gangly adults grumbled about fat mercenaries and corrupt masters. The archer aimed at their flimsy bravado, hands trembling. Djola held his breath. A carnival could become a riot on an upbeat—too many twitchy young men with weapons, too many people with nothing to lose.

Mango sucked water from the fountain and sprayed the crowd just as it was turning into a mob. People squealed and scattered; a few giggled. A hyena girl twirled, flinging droplets at those who were still dry. Mango sprayed the archer. He gaped at her, wavering through outrage, fear, and delight. She waggled her head and trumpeted. Everyone laughed. Dripping wet, his mouth hanging open, the archer lowered his bow.

“A natural clown.” Kyrie used Empire talk.

Mango snatched the archer’s hat and threw it in the air, then tickled his nose. The archer stifled a chuckle. “I thought the last carnival elephants died a year ago. Only barbarians and their elephant raiders left.”

“Mango is a wild girl,” Kyrie said. “A memory come to life on Eishne.”

Mango put the hat back on his head. The crowd applauded.

The archer stroked her trunk. “Elephants are good luck, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” Kyrie beamed at him. “Today we’re hopeful and celebrate peace.”

Mango strode toward the library, her ears flat, her chest rumbling. Fannie trotted behind her in a better mood too. The library’s onion domes were pitted and broken. Tattered banners fluttered over milky windows. Refugees from Holy City and everywhere huddled together in the portico on ragged mats and sipped a steaming brew from clay cups. Thick metal doors stood open, defiant. Djola caught the scent of mint tea, musty parchment, ink, and wax candles.