Reluctantly, the warriors tramped into a Council antechamber without noticing Bal in Aido camouflage skulking by stolen mudcloth drapes. Vie slipped into Council with swords, bow, and talking drum before the doors locked with Lahesh conjure.

Azizi saw Bal easily. All Yari’s lovers became vie’s students, noting what others might not. “I know this instrument.” He tapped Yari’s drum. “A shadow warrior could assassinate me and disappear, yet Lilot guided you here.”

“Past her hyenas and jackals.” Bal grinned, arrogant, cheeky. “Shadow warriors don’t kill enemies, not even animal-people if they can help it.”

“Griots get carried away. I’ve never seen a jackal attack a person.” Azizi tapped the drum again. “Who are you?”

“Yari was my teacher. I carry vie’s drum.” Pain rippled through the chamber. “I’m Bal. Djola is family.” Bal bowed.

Azizi glanced from Bal to Djola and back. “Oh?”

“Yes,” Bal replied. “I’ve vowed to keep him safe.”

“Keep us both safe then,” Azizi said. Bal bowed again and faded into the shadows by the door. Azizi turned to Djola. “Is vie part of your cure-spell?”

Djola clamped his tongue on there is no cure, only change. “Bal rides with Kyrie.”

“I knew you’d talk Kyrie back to Council.” Azizi stood by an Iyalawo stool at the stone-wood table. The beaded monkeys holding up the seat sniggered. “Still master of the impossible.”

“Actually, Kyrie brought me back.”

“A wise move.” Azizi pointed to roasted goat, mashed tubers, pickled seaweed, spicy nut butters, and berry bread. “Lilot cooked your favorites. Let’s talk and fortify ourselves before Council comes to fart and groan and torture us.”

“Council sits tonight?” Nobody had told Djola this.

“Why drag our feet?” Azizi worshipped speed. “Poison desert creeps closer every day.” He piled two plates and sat next to Djola, rubbing shoulders, banging knees, as if eight terrible years weren’t a chasm between them, as if they were the same brash youths who’d dreamed and schemed behind the Elders’ backs years ago. “Urzula said you and Kyrie were coming today with the antidote to our troubles.”

“Awa, for Council,” Djola replied. “She’s the conjurer who gave me a Lahesh eye for clear vision and a heart wheel for compassion.”

“A woman is your cure?” Azizi whistled disapproval. “Rebels worry about treacherous women. They say Tembe is a worse piece of conjure than Hezram.”

“I made this same mistake, blaming Kyrie for—” For what Azizi did, for what Djola himself didn’t do for his family. “Awa is Abelzowadyo. Bal also.”

“I don’t know this word.” Azizi bit into the goat haunch.

“Zamanzi for sacred shapeshifter, a conjurer of change.”

“Zamanzi wisdom is hard to swallow.” Azizi chewed quickly, like his rats. “Who has not lost someone to Zamanzi poison or blades?”

“Who has not lost someone to Empire blades?” Djola attended to his breath before speaking on. “Yari gave Awa this sacred word, a crossover gift.”