“What have you got your nose in?” Awa stares at the dead bugs. She wants to shriek and jump, but looks around, wary of a hostile pack stealing Soot’s find. She picks the bugs up, buries her nose in them, scenting friends. “The anklet I made for Meera.” Tears blur her eyes. “She didn’t want to wear nasty cocoons and dead beetles, but Rokiat liked the sound when they danced or when they…” Awa kisses Soot’s head. “Are Rokiat and Meera here?” He wags his tail. She swallows sorrow and turns. “Soot’s found someone,” she calls to Bal and Djola, “I’ll catch up with you.”

Soot barks over what Bal and Djola reply. He wags his butt, thrilled at Awa’s desire to join the hunt. He races on, following Hezram’s trail. Awa drags her battered leg behind him.

“If Meera and Rokiat went this way, we could be walking into danger. Hezram…”

Soot growls at the name. Men with bloody weapons are coming their way, from the direction Soot wants to go. He sits by an open window, licks his nose, and tastes friendly odors riding a late-afternoon breeze across the courtyard. Going through Smokeland, he can reach the place he wants to go, but the risk would be great. Awa is with him on the hunt, eager and fearless. Soot decides stepping through the border-void is better than fighting five men with blades. Awa reaches him. Soot jumps up, puts his paws on her shoulder, and licks her face. On hind legs, he is taller than Awa. She pulls her head away from his reassuring tongue, yet wraps her arms around his back and buries her face in his fur.

Soot steps sideways with Awa into Jumbajabbaland.

“Farts and fleas! Where are we going?”

No lingering, Soot sidesteps again. Awa’s heart pounds against his. She is excited, unafraid. He can’t help licking her face. They’re on the other side of the citadel in a small dark room. The void clings to his coat, sparking and crackling. He shakes it off and barks quietly. Who wouldn’t be excited?

Awa rubs Soot’s head. “Like the bees. You must show me how to do that.”

Rokiat stands guard outside the cell. Soot nudges Awa to a corner where people, asleep or drugged, are tied to the wall. Soot licks Meera’s arm carefully, cleaning a wound. Meera groans, pushing him away. Awa’s heart jumps, but she remains quiet.

“Wake up,” Awa whispers, stroking Meera’s face, drizzling honey and bitter roots into her mouth. “We’ve come for you.”

“Awa?” Meera opens her eyes, frightened, unsure. “You can’t be here.”

“Of course I can.” Awa scans the room. “Zst! Fresh blood and spirit slaves—together.”

Meera grips her. “That was you whistling to the horses, at the Mountain Gates.”