A stout young craftsman with a gaunt face and a clanging belt of tools blocked her. A zigzag scar or birthmark on his cheek twitched. “The poison master brought down Hezram’s Nightmare Gates.” His Empire vernacular had a Holy City twang.

“What do I care?” Kyrie walked around him and doused a torch with gold dust.

Awa stared at the young man as if she knew him. “Kenu?”

“Why is my name in your mouth?” Kenu scowled. “Who are you?” Awa shook her head. He scratched a scant beard. “Do I know you?”

“Not anymore,” Awa replied, her tongue thick.

“Today is the Eishne Festival of Memories.” Djola distracted Kenu. “Everybody’s past comes to Arkhys City for the carnival show.”

Bal petted Awa. “The griot of griots told a tale of the dead coming back to life, roaming festival streets to find loved ones.”

“I know Yari’s story.” Kyrie put out another torch. “The living looked too much alike: anxious, sad, and full of regret. So the haints spooked strangers, teasing till people chortled and squealed and bubbled over with mirth. The haints never found who they searched for.”

A gray-haired craftsman approached. “I knew Yari. I sold my daughter to that snake. Yari is a haint now.”

“I’m no carnival haint.” Kenu raised a trembling fist and staggered toward Kyrie, too much wine already. “Why do you welcome Hezram and his bloodsuckers?”

Kyrie poked his tools. “Why do you build his blood gates?”

“Leave them be, fool.” The gray-haired craftsman pushed Kyrie aside and gripped Kenu. They were both gaunt-faced, yet paunchy, their brown skin mottled and beads of hair close-cropped, a father and son perhaps. “Too late to regret who you are and what we do.” Drunk also, the older craftsman tried to puff out his chest but staggered and coughed. “The wine’s got your tongue. You don’t know what you say.”

“Dochsi! Why do we build Hezram’s gates?” Kenu struggled free and blubbered. “Why?”

The old man punched Kenu’s nose and blood spurted. “The Master of Poisons will beggar us all. Hezram means tree oil and turquoise. Good for us.”

“Not good for Mother,” Kenu shouted.

“Who told me about her? Who sealed her fate?” the old man replied.

Kenu pulled a hammer from his belt and swung at his father’s head. Awa cried out and Kenu missed.

“Festival time.” The Master of Arms strode between their fists and gripped the hammer. He still had a booming voice, silver red hair and beard, and a commanding presence. He was bigger than the two men put together and all muscle. “Fight next week. The carnival show is about to start.”

Guards whisked the combatants away. Awa trailed them with her eyes.