Master of Poisons

by Andrea Hairston

  Awa smashed him with Tembe’s pot. “Not tonight,” she yelled, as surprised as he was. “Not tonight.”

  “These two are mine,” Rokiat said. Awa punched the guard hard, for emphasis.

  “Fine.” The guard swallowed wine. “I like watch. Nobody bothers me.” Inside Green Gates, he was safe from marauding barbarians, and acolytes avoided the warhorse meadows. He could drink himself senseless. “I never do blood work.”

  They marched on. At the temple door, Rokiat kissed Meera one last time and fumbled with his keys. An acolyte barged out the door and down the steps. He vomited on sacred crystals in the square. Rokiat gagged at the man’s misery or perhaps at the stench wafting from the temple. Rokiat was used to meadow air. Awa and Meera steadied him and they wound through the Temple’s back corridors.

  Preparations for the Sun Festival were in full swing. Dim chambers were filled with the breath bodies of Hezram’s spirit slaves. They lay on straw mats and were chained to the walls, eyes open and unblinking. They smacked slack lips, struggling for air, and tore at rags covering their bony figures. Skin and muscle dissolved into dust. Soon there would be nothing for a smoke-walker to return to. Void clouds hovered above the wasted bodies.

  Rokiat covered his mouth. Awa and Meera held their breath as they passed chambers with gurgling cauldrons where acolytes poured Hezram’s tree oil and blood concoction into the mouths of new spirit slaves chained to stone benches. Awa looked away from limp bodies. Why carry their last pains with her? Better to remember people when they were alive. A careless acolyte got his finger chomped to the bone. He howled.

  “We’ll be burying him next week.” Rokiat shuddered. “How many tonight? Ten? Breathing void fumes, acolytes rot inside—blood’s not even fit for Hezram’s conjure.”

  Awa grunted. Acolytes deserved sickness and death.

  Jod stuffed a rag in the wounded man’s mouth and dragged him out. Hungry spirit slaves strained against chains to drink the trail of blood. They were deadly in Smokeland and the everyday. Awa stumbled to a halt at the last chamber before the Temple Hall and the front door. She leaned against a scraggly cathedral tree, fascinated, disgusted. Rokiat and Meera tugged her in vain. Hezram was claiming a new spirit slave. Awa had never seen this.

  A smoke-walker’s breath body jerked and thrashed. Hezram drizzled poison in vie’s mouth and whispered a spell, until jerks became twitches, until eyes emptied out and breath was a puff of void-smoke. Jod poured blood and oil down the spirit slave’s throat. Hezram moved on. He drizzled poison and whispered chants, renewing his hold on spirit slaves whose bodies had withered only a little. Jod fed each one, careful to keep his fingers clear of gnashing teeth.

  A flash of indigo light filled the chamber. Hezram startled and scowled. Jod and other acolytes feeding spirit slaves halted as their charges became more agitated. “Someone got free,” Rokiat whispered. “In Smokeland.”

  Awa was thrilled to hear this.

  Jod loomed over Meera. “What are you gaping at?” He pulled her close. He sniffed her neck and licked her chest. “After blood conjure, a man needs something soft and sweet.” He buried his face in frizzy golden hair and grinned at Rokiat. “Some burial detail.”

  Rokiat clenched a hand behind his back and held his breath.

  “Look, another one.” Awa pointed to an indigo explosion. When Jod turned and cursed, she snatched Meera away, and jumped in his face.

  He turned back and looked right through her as he always had. “Fatazz! Who is doing this conjure in Smokeland?”

  Awa shrugged—the conjure woman in the seventh region or someone else who knew a cure. “What’s Hezram going to do? That’s the question.” She forced a smile.

  “Yes.” Jod raced to a dead smoke-walker—heart still, indigo light leaking from her eyes. Death was a doorway.

  “Kyrie’s work. Or someone like her.” Hezram patted Jod. “Don’t worry. Kyrie can’t get to spirit slaves holding my Dream Gates. I’d eat her alive first.”

  Rokiat, Meera, and Awa raced through the glowing Nightmare Gates that trapped Hezram’s spirit slaves. Lost souls got caught in the filigree of crossroads Vévés, but not forever—a third indigo explosion and someone was free. Hezram cursed.

  “What happens to Dream Gates when Hezram runs out of smoke-walkers?” Meera asked as they slipped out the front door.

  “Hezram says smoke-walkers hide among us. He looks for a spell to expose them.” Rokiat winked at Awa. “Tembe says, no such spell. Anyone could smoke-walk. We just have to learn how. I believe her. Tembe is Hezram’s keeper of spells.” Rokiat unlocked their transgressor hut—a hovel built into the mountain behind the temple. Straw and rags were strewn on filthy ground. Dung burned in a fire pit. Folks huddled around dying flames. Rokiat dropped his voice—spies were everywhere: “Tembe’s conjure book is what Hezram uses for everything.”

  “Why?” Awa asked. “Why help a monster?”

  “Love,” Meera whispered. “It makes women weak and men strong.” Yet Meera let herself love Rokiat. “The people love Hezram too. He feeds on their love.”

  Rokiat squeezed Meera’s hand. “Love is also a good thing.” He locked them in.

  The hut smelled like a festering wound. Awa shivered in the damp. Meera hugged her, radiating heat. Other transgressors eyed them. Awa passed out the scraps of goat and yam she’d gotten from Tembe. People snatched bread and gristle from her hands, muttering at how little she had. A big man barged through the crowd, grabbed the pot, and disappeared into shadows, before everyone got a taste.

  Awa had considered hiding the food, not sharing, to spite the greedy ones, but she feared what they might do to her or Meera if they came back empty-handed. She also feared feeling so cruel. Every day new cruel thoughts. That’s why she’d tucked mango in her Aido bag for the newest arrivals—Zamanzi twins, a boy and a girl, acrobats from a carnival troupe. She wanted to hate them, but they reminded her of Bal, muscular and fierce, balancing on one arm, dancing on high branches. What lies had folks told on them to land them here?

  “Do you juggle fire? Shapeshift? Tease peaceful haints?” Awa offered the fruit.

  They stared at her, surprised by Zamanzi words in her mouth. “We’re warrior-clowns and we see what you do for us,” the boy said. He was sharp angles.

  “We remember this,” the girl added. She was intense and earnest. Wearing Aido cloth robes, they almost faded from view, but weren’t quite shadow warriors yet. They grabbed the last of the mango, nodded thanks, and swallowed quickly. Who had time to taste sweetness?

  Meera pulled Awa down in the drafty corner near the door.

  “You sleep first. I’ll keep watch,” Awa said.

  “They fear you.” Meera nodded at transgressors scuttling away from them.

  “Me? You’re the fierce one.”

  “You speak with crows and horses and the river. They don’t know what other tongues you have, and Tembe trusts you.”

  “Tembe thinks we can be redeemed from the huts, like some of her drummers. Then we’d be loyal to her, even after death.” Awa sneered. “That’s not trust.”

  “You scare them. That means we can both sleep.”

  Awa groaned. “Someone could jump us in the night and—”

  “All right. I’ll keep watch. You’re exhausted. Put your head in my lap.”

  Awa curled up against Meera. “If we die before the festival—”

  “We’re almost there.” Meera stroked Awa. “Think of smoke-walkers escaping, indigo fire on their last breath.”

  Awa held up her Aido bag. “If I don’t make it. Keep this. A shadow warrior gave it to me.”

  Meera put a hand to Awa’s lips. “You get worried at night, but I say Hezram will choose someone else to sacrifice, not us. Someone worthy of the gods.”

  “He doesn’t do it for the gods.”

  “I’ll sing Rokiat’s song. You’ll dream of green hills and sea creatures dancing and you and me riding to Arkhys City.” She sang softly in Awa’s ear. Not the
best singer, yet Awa drifted off and dreamed of Holy City exploding. She and Meera rode warhorses through indigo sparkles.

  To have found such a good friend was impossible luck. Begrudgingly, Awa thanked the crossroads gods.

  7

  Yari

  The Wild Dog whimpers. Yari shoos him away. The Dog woofs and stands his ground. He must warn Yari. They tussle outside a clay cottage built over a stream of water from Ice Mountain’s glacier. Hezram’s cottage. It reeks of the witchdoctor, of blood and oil, void-smoke, and the power piss of a big predator.

  The Dog jumps up and licks Yari’s face. Vie turns from his reassuring tongue and sets paws on the dirt. Vie smells of cinnamon, jasmine, and desert rose. Nut bread crumbles in a pocket and goat skin on vie’s talking drum tenses in the chill. Dry cocoons on swollen ankles smell of bugs long gone.

  Yari should leave. The Dog sniffs fresh blood conjure on the wind. Hezram approaches, from a nearby waterfall. The temple stink clings to him despite a shower. It is still dim. The sun hides behind the mountain, lighting the sky, and not the bushes. They could run away. Hezram would not catch them. The Dog is strong. He jumps against Yari’s chest, knocking vie to the ground. He grips a sleeve and tugs vie toward an escape route.

  “Stop,” Yari says. Vie glares at the pathway from the temple.

  The Dog sits and sniffs. Yari is a jumble of feelings: anger, fear, frustration, and other scents the Dog can’t quite read.

  “You’re a loyal friend.” Yari scratches the Dog’s head. The Dog puts a paw on vie’s shoulder. “I must persuade Hezram, trick him to his right mind.”

  The Dog tilts his head, whining. Yari should prepare for a hunt, a fight to the death.

  “If I can’t talk sense into this witchdoctor, go find our friends and get them far away from here. Survive!” Yari hugs the Dog’s neck, tears rolling down vie’s cheeks. The Dog whines too. “You don’t understand me, do you?”

  The Dog wags his tail and growls. Hezram is close. The Dog turns his head into the scent. Too close. The Dog wants to rip Hezram’s throat out.

  “He’s coming.” Yari grabs a handful of the Dog’s neck fur and drags him to the bushes. “Stay here, out of sight, even if something bad happens.” Yari shakes vie’s finger at the Dog’s nose. “Hezram would put a bolt in your heart.”

  The Dog crouches in shadows, ready to pounce if Yari needs him. He knows this hunt, one out in the open, one downwind from the prey. Hezram is startled by Yari and halts at the edge of the clearing, uncertainty on his breath. Yari marches toward him.

  Hezram has a hand on a knife. “Is this an ambush?”

  “No.” Yari steps close. “You trusted me once. Trust me again.”

  “I was young and you seduced me out of my right mind. I’m a grown man now.” Hezram pats Yari’s cheek. “I hear you made fools of Zamanzi war chiefs and escaped.”

  Yari pulls Hezram’s hand away. “Your spies are wrong. Zamanzi are rebels now. Warrior-clown allies.”

  “Forgiven?” Hezram wags his head. “How do you do that?” His voice is hollow.

  “You talk your way into people’s minds too.” Yari’s face twists. A smile fails.

  “Zamanzi raided your enclave and murdered Isra. Why not kill the bastards?”

  “I forgive them for myself.” Yari tries to relax. The Dog tenses. “Lahesh diplomacy.”

  “The Lahesh have been wiped out.” Hezram wants to bite someone.

  Yari should bite him first. “You aren’t the only master of illusion.”

  “I know why you’ve come.” Hezram claws his hair. “You’re against my gates.”

  “You invite the void to the everyday.”

  “Not just me.” Hezram backs away from Yari. “Everybody is doing that.”

  “I can’t reach everybody. I start with you, then the pirate master.”

  “Your wayward Sprites.” Hezram laughs, but he smells sad. “I thought you gave up on the Empire and ran away, beyond the maps to make bridges to the future.”

  “The rebels are finally getting organized. I join them.”

  “Of course you’d join the clowns!”

  They sniff each other, panting to stay cool. Hezram kisses Yari, but it is a lie. There is only fear in Hezram’s sweat and bloodlust on his breath. A hunter hugging a deadly prey … Yari’s breath is sour, a tangle of emotion. Vie clutches Hezram. “Let me show you what you’ve done, what you’re doing.”

  “All right.” Hezram leads Yari into the cabin and shuts the door. A bolt slides. The Dog runs close, whines, and paces. He hears murmurs and catches a jumble of scents coming from under the door—joy, fear, lust. They argue and laugh and curse. Silence. The scents fade. The Dog jumps against the door and scratches. He digs in the dirt till his paws bleed. He can’t get in. Tunnels under the cabin take mountain water to the Amethyst River and also lead to the temple. The Dog has wandered there trailing Awa and caught Hezram’s scent. If he goes to the temple he might find Yari and Hezram, before Hezram sucks Yari’s blood and eats vie’s heart.

  The Dog races off as fast as he can run. He hates the temple: thrashing breath bodies, caldrons of oil and blood, clouds of void-smoke. He slips through an open door, looking like a gust of soot. Dazed acolytes almost trip over him, but he stays away from clumsy feet. They breathe too much void-smoke. It’s killing them. Awa and Meera were here yesterday with Rokiat. The Dog will find them later.

  Wandering without a pack in the temple is dangerous. Heavy doors slam shut at night. Some tunnels lead to nowhere. Priests hunt dogs and pierce them with swords or throw fire. Spirit slaves tear dogs to pieces. The Dog smells this, but can’t turn back. He has Yari’s scent and Hezram’s, from moments ago. He runs, knocking down an acolyte who doesn’t get up. Others trip over the boy and also don’t get up. The commotion is camouflage. Nobody sees the Dog stick a nose in Hezram’s chamber.

  Too late. Hezram hugs Yari’s thrashing breath body. He drizzles poison in Yari’s mouth and chants in vie’s ear. The Dog lunges for Hezram’s throat. A pack of breath bodies reeking of Hezram leap up and block the Dog. No chains hold them to stone benches. Hezram barks and Yari joins the attack. A mass of fists and teeth try to bite the Dog’s neck. They rip mouthfuls of fur from his back. Spirit slaves are awkward and confused in the everyday.

  The Dog knocks Yari down and other spirit slaves fall on vie. Before they regroup, the Dog dashes out the door. Spirit slaves are too inept to trail him. They chase their tails and barge into one another, blocking Hezram. The Dog runs along the Dream Gates to the outside. Dazed acolytes don’t notice him slipping out the citadel. He picks up Awa’s trail and runs and runs until he sees her. She is beyond the warhorse meadows with Rokiat and Meera. They bury bodies—dead men who reek of temple conjure and void-smoke. The Dog charges into Awa and almost knocks her down.

  Awa pets him. “What’s the matter?”

  The Dog pants and snorts, howls and whimpers. Yari is lost and it’s his fault. He tries to crawl into Awa’s lap.

  “What happened to you?” She laughs, and the Dog nuzzles her, whining. “You’re usually cheering me up.” She lets him sit on her.

  “We need a break anyhow.” Meera strokes his back. He whimpers when she touches bare skin. “Did something try to eat you?”

  Meera and Rokiat sit close. They talk softly and stroke the Dog’s head as Awa puts bee spit on his wounds. Nobody licks him though.

  “It’s all right.” Awa kisses his nose. “You got away to us.”

  The Dog licks her and falls asleep. In his dreams, he chases Yari and Hezram through Smokeland.

  8

  Holy City

  Obsessed, relentless, and not quite right in his mind, Djola marched into Holy City. He hadn’t been in his right mind since Zizi exiled him. No seed and silk potion dulled his senses and although Samina’s chill cooled his temper, rage fueled his resolve. He pushed that thought away. It was noonday when Ice Mountain’s highest peak cast the shortest shadow. Only Mount Eidhou near Arkhys City
had a peak so high with ghost-blue glaciers frozen year round.

  Barbarians, northern tribes, and citizens would gather this evening to receive blessings from fickle mountain gods. At the festival’s end they’d pay tribute to high priest Hezram and his lapsed Elders and Babalawos, his witchdoctors. This was money snatched from the emperor’s coffers, from roads and bridges, armies and waterworks. Water was fluid treasure, the Empire’s greatest currency. Holy City squandered water, blood, and the wind too.

  Hezram and his gang of liars deserved what was to come.

  During noonday heat, people in Holy City withdrew to cool cellars for siesta, love play, or meditation. Only women’s societies toiled to prepare feasts and dances while transgressors did penance labor—what no righteous person would soil their spirits with. Transgressors swept streets in Holy City clean of dung and set out flowers that seduced a riot of rare songbirds.

  Djola donned a silver-mesh blindfold and headed for the festival plaza in front of the temple built into Ice Mountain. He tapped counterpoint to the hummingbirds with a blind-man staff. Cheerful cooks offered him fragrant honey cakes. Warrior-acolytes guarding the citadel’s Dream Gates laughed at an unarmed, disabled supplicant. They assumed he’d arrived early to be nearest the water altars.

  “Hope to catch a wayward miracle, do you?” one sneered and let him pass.

  Sweating and muttering in character, Djola picked his way around clay cottages perched atop underground streams. Holy men stayed cool even with hundreds of lamps burning. Transgressors provided a steady supply of tree oil, wild goat, and ice from the mountain. Northlanders brought books, maps, and tapestry from across the world. Barbarian thief-lords offered children to bed. The holy men had no complaints.

  Blindfolded, Djola was not distracted by luxury or other power-spells. Passing through the frosty metalwork of Hezram’s Dream Gates, his skin prickled at cold conjure. He zigzagged over the stone altar square to the sundial courtyard. Lines of crystals marked the sun’s transit across the sky. Whether Djola could see them or not, rainbow spirits from the crystals danced across his white robes. They were tricksters, playful one moment, deadly another. Djola’s heart thundered in his ears as he praised the crossroads gods and strode over sharp facets poking his boots.