The crows flew to the rooftops, hooting and hollering. Danger, coming their way. Big danger. Djola threw his cloak over the Lahesh crystal in his foot. Kyrie held a ball of fire in each hand. Soot crouched low. He and Bal were taut as bowstrings. Festivalgoers scattered, screeching like the crows: angry, awestruck, and fearful.

Awa wrinkled her nose. “There.” She held her breath and pointed.

Witchdoctors, priests, and warrior acolytes in billowing yellow robes poured from another alley. They raced across Rainbow Square with caged transgressors and warhorses in tow. The clatter of chains, hooves, and wheels was deafening. Djola covered his ears. With his marble eye, he spied a blue robe and a blue eyepatch moving to the head of the swarm. Hezram. Mango grabbed Soot’s tail before the mangy hound could race off. He turned, fangs bared, but did not snap at the elephant.

Tembe, in golden robe and head wrap, led a band of woman drummers and a warrior acolyte around the edge of the square. They sang Hezram’s praises and took care not to desecrate crystals with female flesh. No matter Azizi’s edict allowing women to tread anywhere, Tembe wouldn’t be blamed for ill fortune. She stopped to admire Mango. The drummers circled the troupe. The acolyte grumbled to a halt. Djola slumped behind Kyrie. Awa pulled her hat low.

Mango tickled bells on Tembe’s head wrap, and the wise woman of Ice Mountain giggled. Bal stood tall on Fannie. Kyrie threw burning torches to vie and they juggled three, four, then five between them. Soot crouched and leapt through the circle of flames and then Bal juggled the torches alone. Tembe’s women drummed a praise song: Who dances with fire? The foolish go up in flames, but not the brave or the wise. The warrior acolyte feigned disinterest and herded the musicians on as festivalgoers snapped their fingers and cheered.

Tembe lingered. “You must perform for Hezram and the emperor.” She spoke Anawanama with the musical accent of the floating cities. “I’ll recommend your troupe.”

Vévé scars on Kyrie’s cheeks flashed silver. Tembe blinked green-flecked black eyes, a question in her mouth. It dissolved as Kyrie threw Bal a sixth torch. The tight swirl of fire was hypnotic. Tembe shook herself, saluted Bal, Soot, and Mango, and dashed off to Hezram at the bridge. When the last drummer passed through citadel gates, Bal hurled each torch at the ground, scattering their audience. Vie sat down on Fannie and gathered a trembling Awa close. Djola had chomped his tongue; he spit out blood.

“Ah Mango, did you hear—a show good enough for the emperor.” Kyrie clowned delight, slid off the elephant, and headed for the flaming torches.