Grain stepped under a light. Deep blue eyes were unreadable. A purple scar ran from ear to chin on otherwise smooth, blue-black skin—a good story there. “I’m glad to see you returned from pirate exile, Djola. We need heroes more than ever before.”

Djola snorted, embarrassed. “Zizi, Kyrie, and Arms spread that pirate-hero lie.”

“What lie? Pezarrat no longer plagues the waters. You’re the hero who saved—”

“Ha.” Djola shifted to Anawanama, certain Grain would understand. “A friend on Pezarrat’s ship said—if it’s so bad, you need gods or heroes to save your world—” Regrets and doubts shook him and perhaps Grain also. “Well, it’s time to pull together.”

Grain tapped the talking drum to say: “Isn’t it always that bad?”

Djola had cursed Grain’s cowardice just this morning. “Thank you for the letters.”

Grain also spoke Anawanama. “Spit on the wind.”

“No. Water in the desert.”

Grain drummed thanks, but was drowned out by singers and djembe drummers heralding Hezram’s entrance. The old carnival hack appeared in a puff of blue smoke at the jackal’s head, almost blowing out the candles. Seashells scattered in Hezram’s luxurious hair framed handsome features. He wore power-blue robes, a torch-bug eyepatch that sparkled iridescent blue, and a calm-in-the-face-of-any-danger demeanor. The crowd applauded. Ernold and Money fussed and fumed. Hezram shushed them, grinned at Djola, and marched around with a Lahesh timepiece, prodding acolytes, masons, and everyone else. “The sooner we start, the better for the city and the Empire.” Hezram sat down next to the emperor in Djola’s old chair.

Azizi whistled at him. “You’re not yet a master at this table.”

Hezram jumped up, and pointed at the bandage on Azizi’s neck. “Someone try to slit your throat?”

Arms had a blade at Hezram’s head before Azizi took a breath. Hezram’s acolytes readied poison darts. Emperor guards drew swords. Warrior-clowns aimed bows and spears from the shadows. Few weapons were allowed in the citadel chamber, but under the stars, Arms had little control. Azizi wore an Anawanama outlaw cloak like Djola’s, impervious to arrows, darts, and blades. Mesh dangled from Zizi’s headdress, protecting the back of his neck and forehead. Assassins would need perfect aim to bring him down. So many others could suffer if—

“Are we dead before we begin?” Sparks leapt from Kyrie’s fingers and fresh Vévé wounds as she paraded in, fearless. Mountain jewels graced her hair. Cloud-silk pants and tunic accentuated her round, flowing figure. Her Anawanama cape snapped in the wind. Drunk on snake venom, poison sap, and rock runoff, she, like Djola, was ready for anything. She carried her conjure book. Warriors bristled and glanced about, uncertain. Mango trumpeted and touched her trunk to Kyrie’s nose.

An entrance to rival Hezram’s.