“War is a joke, but peace is more entertaining.” Arms leapt in the air, twisting his hefty torso, flapping his cape like wings—an agile dancer, a formidable warrior. He landed by the goat cheese, chased rats away, and stuffed a creamy ball in his mouth. Grain smiled at his antics. Arms punched Grain’s shoulders. Flirting? They whispered to one another and laughed.

“We must be serious.” Money shoved his picked-over feast away. Water mirrored his brother’s disdain. They spoke together, an irritating habit. “War is coming.”

“May catastrophe come when I’m dead,” Books and Bones sighed. “Why struggle? What comes, comes.” Djola had hoped for the old librarian’s support, not philosophical farting and groaning. “We aren’t gods. Tomorrow belongs to them.”

“Gods don’t care about time.” Djola gripped the librarian’s ink-stained hands. “Tomorrow never comes and today belongs to us.”

“True.” Books and Bones bit his chapped lip. “And the past hasn’t gone anywhere. Still…” He’d rather be in the shelves with his books.

Djola had to keep an eye on his mood. “We count on your wisdom and insight.”

The door beside the warrior masks creaked and swung open to the Council antechamber. Yesterday this door opened on to a dim tunnel. Azizi’s guards claimed citadel rooms changed places and hallways shifted also. Djola laughed at himself for believing tall tales for a second. A simple trick to make identical rooms and fake hallways—Empire illusions.

In the antechamber, blindfolded petitioners waved scrolls and shoved each other. They were penned in by ropes and surrounded by guards. Djola gasped as half-brother Nuar barged to the front of the mob. Gray hair puffed around his blindfold. Anger was chiseled across his sharp chin and high cheekbones. Djola bristled. A home ambush had proved insufficient. Chief Nuar had come to argue with Djola in front of Azizi and Council.

The black and brown mudcloth cloak draped over Nuar’s long limbs matched stolen drapes hanging at antechamber windows. A provocation. Under the mudcloth, he wore a leather and copper-mesh tunic, outlawed Anawanama armor—another provocation. Nuar carried a sweetgrass basket with braids of green and brown bark undulating along the sides and across the top. The beautiful design irritated Djola.

“Collect petitions, then guide them out,” Arms commanded. Petitioners threw scrolls in the air. Most clattered against the walls and landed in the antechamber.

“Wait.” Djola turned to Nuar and spoke Anawanama, their mother’s tongue. “What can you say that I don’t know?” The crowd veered toward his voice, toward an echo of the ancestors. Djola flinched as they pleaded: Bad things are coming. Save us. Save me.