The pirate women creep into a dank hallway. Many anxious people sneak through here, some are sick, some full of love or about to give birth, some run for their lives. Rats live in the crevices and jackals hunt them, pissing on the walls, declaring themselves. Hyenas tiptoe here and there. Soot doesn’t recognize anyone. Kyrie charges ahead, flying around a bend behind the pirate women. Bal almost carries Djola on vie’s back and trudges as slowly as Awa, who limps across cold stone. Awa has more strength than in the mountains, yet no speed. She, Bal, and Djola breathe heavily and make no other sound, as if they hunt prey or avoid a rival pack. They fall far behind the others. Soot stays close to Awa, ready for human ambush or hyena attack.

Many hallways intersect at the bottom of a narrow stairway, and Soot halts, catching a wind stream from a distant doorway. He smells Hezram. His heart pounds, he growls and sniffs ten times for each of his heartbeats. Bal drags Djola up the first step.

Awa hesitates and asks, “Can you manage?”

Soot doesn’t hear Bal’s answer. Exhaling out the sides of his nose, he maps the continuous flow of scents. The citadel is a maze of odors with eddies from yesterday, last year, and who knows how long ago. Soot concentrates, poking his nose along Hezram’s pungent trail. He swallows a bark. The witchdoctor’s aroma is mixed with duck fat, cathedral tree oil, transgressor blood, goat milk, snake venom, poison sand, and ash. He’s been on a warhorse, down by the sea, and he drank coconut wine.

Hezram walked this way a few hours ago. A tang of Yari clings to him—sugarbush and desert rose. Hezram carries scrolls and ink, like Djola, and potions to dull the mind and trick the spirit. Hezram is unwell and has many wounds that won’t heal. Soot notes sour breath, feverish oily sweat, and distress flatulence. Bal, Djola, and Awa have gone several steps up the stairs. Soot can catch them easily. He takes a moment to sort through other smells. Hezram walks with the mountain woman who worries over him and also Awa’s friends from Holy City—Meera and Rokiat. They smell bloody, hopeless, defeated. They are surrounded by a hostile pack. Several men, who drink blood and tree oil like Hezram, are anxious, ready for a fight.