Master of Poisons

by Andrea Hairston

“You,” Djola shouted and shook his head. “Alive?”

  “Yes, and Vandana too,” Boto replied.

  “Vandana? You crack my heart.” Djola pressed a hand to his chest. “Boto now?”

  “Abelzowadyo,” Boto yelled.

  “Yes.” Djola shook his head, his heart wheel racing.

  “How does Boto know your plan?” Bal looked wounded.

  “Abelzowadyo is not just Djola’s plan.” Kyrie answered for Djola.

  Other librarians gripped Boto, holding him back. They whispered in his ear, and Boto waved one last time before reluctantly returning to the library.

  “You two are old friends?” Awa said.

  “He was Orca on the pirate ship.” Djola chuckled. “I worried Pezarrat might have cut his head off to spite me.”

  “Orca.” Awa smiled too. “He saved your life many times.”

  “Books and Bones lost heart,” Kyrie said. “He abandoned Council and returned to his lair.” She sighed. “He wanders the library and leaves Council work to Boto. Azizi will gather everyone tomorrow or the next day. Boto must prepare.”

  Bal arched an eyebrow. “Money thinks Boto is loyal to their cause.”

  “What is their cause?” Awa asked.

  Bal shrugged. “Staying in power and stealing what they can.”

  Awa sucked her teeth at this easy response.

  Djola nodded. “Orca was a good spy.”

  “You made a rebel of him and of Vandana too,” Kyrie said.

  “Vandana, the Mama Zamba warrior woman, a rebel? Well, she already was.” Djola rubbed his brow. “How big, how organized is this rebellion?”

  “It’s as big as all the People together,” Awa said. “Kyrie told you already, when we were coming down the mountain.”

  “Ah. Tell me again.” Djola sat up straight. “I wasn’t quite right in my mind.”

  “Did you think all we needed was you to save us?” Kyrie teased him with truth.

  “I haven’t thought that for a while. But the rebels were just a mob.”

  “Warrior-clowns, Anawanama and Zamanzi, organized all the factions. They know how to put on a show.” Kyrie chuckled. “We’ll speak more later. Anyone might know Anawanama.” She pointed at a crowd of scowling faces from across the Empire and beyond, all the People together. Zamanzi and Anawanama hated each other in the best of times. Most good citizens had contempt for savages, even for Lahesh tinkerers. Nobody trusted pirates or barbarian thief-lords who raided and plundered their own mothers.

  “Fatazz!” Djola grimaced. A People’s rebellion could become turf wars on an upbeat. “No getting around yesterday’s blood.”

  4

  Juggling Fire

  The crows flew to the rooftops, hooting and hollering. Danger, coming their way. Big danger. Djola threw his cloak over the Lahesh crystal in his foot. Kyrie held a ball of fire in each hand. Soot crouched low. He and Bal were taut as bowstrings. Festivalgoers scattered, screeching like the crows: angry, awestruck, and fearful.

  Awa wrinkled her nose. “There.” She held her breath and pointed.

  Witchdoctors, priests, and warrior acolytes in billowing yellow robes poured from another alley. They raced across Rainbow Square with caged transgressors and warhorses in tow. The clatter of chains, hooves, and wheels was deafening. Djola covered his ears. With his marble eye, he spied a blue robe and a blue eyepatch moving to the head of the swarm. Hezram. Mango grabbed Soot’s tail before the mangy hound could race off. He turned, fangs bared, but did not snap at the elephant.

  Tembe, in golden robe and head wrap, led a band of woman drummers and a warrior acolyte around the edge of the square. They sang Hezram’s praises and took care not to desecrate crystals with female flesh. No matter Azizi’s edict allowing women to tread anywhere, Tembe wouldn’t be blamed for ill fortune. She stopped to admire Mango. The drummers circled the troupe. The acolyte grumbled to a halt. Djola slumped behind Kyrie. Awa pulled her hat low.

  Mango tickled bells on Tembe’s head wrap, and the wise woman of Ice Mountain giggled. Bal stood tall on Fannie. Kyrie threw burning torches to vie and they juggled three, four, then five between them. Soot crouched and leapt through the circle of flames and then Bal juggled the torches alone. Tembe’s women drummed a praise song: Who dances with fire? The foolish go up in flames, but not the brave or the wise. The warrior acolyte feigned disinterest and herded the musicians on as festivalgoers snapped their fingers and cheered.

  Tembe lingered. “You must perform for Hezram and the emperor.” She spoke Anawanama with the musical accent of the floating cities. “I’ll recommend your troupe.”

  Vévé scars on Kyrie’s cheeks flashed silver. Tembe blinked green-flecked black eyes, a question in her mouth. It dissolved as Kyrie threw Bal a sixth torch. The tight swirl of fire was hypnotic. Tembe shook herself, saluted Bal, Soot, and Mango, and dashed off to Hezram at the bridge. When the last drummer passed through citadel gates, Bal hurled each torch at the ground, scattering their audience. Vie sat down on Fannie and gathered a trembling Awa close. Djola had chomped his tongue; he spit out blood.

  “Ah Mango, did you hear—a show good enough for the emperor.” Kyrie clowned delight, slid off the elephant, and headed for the flaming torches.

  A stout young craftsman with a gaunt face and a clanging belt of tools blocked her. A zigzag scar or birthmark on his cheek twitched. “The poison master brought down Hezram’s Nightmare Gates.” His Empire vernacular had a Holy City twang.

  “What do I care?” Kyrie walked around him and doused a torch with gold dust.

  Awa stared at the young man as if she knew him. “Kenu?”

  “Why is my name in your mouth?” Kenu scowled. “Who are you?” Awa shook her head. He scratched a scant beard. “Do I know you?”

  “Not anymore,” Awa replied, her tongue thick.

  “Today is the Eishne Festival of Memories.” Djola distracted Kenu. “Everybody’s past comes to Arkhys City for the carnival show.”

  Bal petted Awa. “The griot of griots told a tale of the dead coming back to life, roaming festival streets to find loved ones.”

  “I know Yari’s story.” Kyrie put out another torch. “The living looked too much alike: anxious, sad, and full of regret. So the haints spooked strangers, teasing till people chortled and squealed and bubbled over with mirth. The haints never found who they searched for.”

  A gray-haired craftsman approached. “I knew Yari. I sold my daughter to that snake. Yari is a haint now.”

  “I’m no carnival haint.” Kenu raised a trembling fist and staggered toward Kyrie, too much wine already. “Why do you welcome Hezram and his bloodsuckers?”

  Kyrie poked his tools. “Why do you build his blood gates?”

  “Leave them be, fool.” The gray-haired craftsman pushed Kyrie aside and gripped Kenu. They were both gaunt-faced, yet paunchy, their brown skin mottled and beads of hair close-cropped, a father and son perhaps. “Too late to regret who you are and what we do.” Drunk also, the older craftsman tried to puff out his chest but staggered and coughed. “The wine’s got your tongue. You don’t know what you say.”

  “Dochsi! Why do we build Hezram’s gates?” Kenu struggled free and blubbered. “Why?”

  The old man punched Kenu’s nose and blood spurted. “The Master of Poisons will beggar us all. Hezram means tree oil and turquoise. Good for us.”

  “Not good for Mother,” Kenu shouted.

  “Who told me about her? Who sealed her fate?” the old man replied.

  Kenu pulled a hammer from his belt and swung at his father’s head. Awa cried out and Kenu missed.

  “Festival time.” The Master of Arms strode between their fists and gripped the hammer. He still had a booming voice, silver red hair and beard, and a commanding presence. He was bigger than the two men put together and all muscle. “Fight next week. The carnival show is about to start.”

  Guards whisked the combatants away. Awa trailed them with her eyes.

  “Hezram offers gate secu
rity.” Arms clapped the backs of other men raring to fight. He roared, the confident center of a whirlwind. “The Master of Poisons defeated that pirate stinker, Pezarrat. Now the Salty Sea offers safe transport to Empire ships, and soon the poison desert will leave us be. That means more tree oil for everyone and plenty to eat.”

  Djola shook his head. Arms calmed foul tempers, but he had to be lying or worse, he’d been fed lies he believed. He marched past Kyrie without recognizing her and never glanced at Djola.

  “Today people from everywhere, even Holy City, come to celebrate with Emperor Azizi and Queen Urzula who we are together. Let us feast and sing and laugh.” Arms led the crowd into the oasis garden.

  “How do you know that builder?” Bal asked a watery-eyed Awa. “You told me about Kenu, I think.” Had Awa mentioned a brother Kenu to Djola?

  “I don’t care who Kenu is.” Kyrie put out the last torch and glared at Awa. “No surprise to see a familiar face during the Festival of Memories. Yari spoke truth—everyone comes. So even if the dead return to you, remember our masquerade.”

  Awa disciplined her shock. “We juggle fire.” She pulled a placid Green Elder face.

  “Arms has brought good news,” Djola said. “Zizi expects us.”

  “Fatazz!” Bal peered at the citadel bridge. “Hezram will get to him before we do.”

  “Hezram will take an afternoon to settle in.” Kyrie stowed the torches in a bag on her back. “Unless protocol has changed, Azizi won’t see him until after the storm, when the air is clear and chill, after supper.”

  Djola nodded. “Zizi might put him off until tomorrow.”

  Temple altars in the square belched oily smoke, a flagrant offering of tree oil to indifferent mountain gods. Awa gagged. “Hezram gets ready for Nightmare Gates.”

  Kyrie spat. “And spreads poison desert.”

  Djola gritted his teeth. “I found no spell to hang fallen stars back in the night or heal a rip in the sky, no conjure to return the dead to life. But—” The sun crested over Mount Eidhou and light exploded in his marble eye, a vision. “I see…” a fiery dust storm consuming the world.

  “What?” Bal gripped Yari’s drum as it rattled.

  “The dust…” Djola muttered. “Xhalan Xhala plaguing me.”

  Mango lifted her trunk. Elephants could sense a storm fifty leagues away.

  Awa pointed. “A void whirlwind, like in Jumbajabbaland, coming this way.”

  Kyrie squinted at a clear horizon. “At least an hour away.”

  “These storms keep no time. They pop up anywhere, anytime,” Djola said.

  Soot shook the bells on his cap and barked at the tangle of feet blocking the entrance to the garden. “Let him through,” an old woman shouted and the crowd parted for the mangy hound who wagged his tail and suffered pats on his big head. Kyrie led Mango through cheers. As Fannie trotted by, intrepid elders and awestruck youths reached up to shake Bal’s hands. (Rebels?) Bold singers ululated and threw flowers and seeds. The troupe marched in like returning heroes.

  Djola banished terrible visions and gazed at Awa and Bal, not a cure, but hope. “Samina said: Impossible is a word for yesterday. We make change without a cure.”

  5

  Void-Spells

  Cheery, familiar faces welcomed the elephant troupe to the oasis garden. Hearts pounded an eerie polyrhythm. Ancestors and haints filled the back beats. Awa sang, the past comes to carnival, and we juggle fire, over and over, but Elder discipline was failing. The seaweed and sea island shrimp she’d gobbled threatened to come back up.

  Father and Kenu had spooked her worse than any haint or spirit slave. Kenu was hollowed out, as if by working for Hezram, he’d gotten lost in the void. All of her brothers probably worked for Hezram. At least unworthy daughter Awa had been spared that fate. She shuddered to think what happened to Mother. Father had built transgressor huts and Nightmare Gates in Holy City and preceded Hezram to the capital to build more here. Hezram tolerated Father’s insolence and paid him a pirate’s ransom, probably because he needed Father to turn gate-spells into void-spells. Maybe Hezram hadn’t mastered the conjure or maybe he didn’t want spirit debt.

  Any conjure can be perverted. That’s what Father always screamed at Mother. He put the People and all the green lands in mortal danger for a few sky rocks. Kenu could be forgiven, but having such a father filled Awa with revulsion. Mother should have poisoned Father for selling Awa, even if Awa was someone else’s daughter. But Mother was a coward like Awa.

  Fannie nickered delight at the terraced oasis garden and dragged Awa’s awareness to the here and now. They could have been stepping into a Smokeland region from her childhood. Lush fruit trees presided over an explosion of wildflowers. Bees swarmed tiers of honeycomb in several trunk towers. Tree song calmed Awa, as Fannie pranced down a winding pathway.

  “No sign of poison dust damage anywhere.” Bal spoke Anawanama like a native and snapped vie’s fingers at green-land bounty. “Something protects this garden.”

  “Yes.” Raintree blossoms brushed Awa’s hot cheeks. The buttery, honey smell soothed her belly. “A grove like this saved me and Djola from Hezram.” Shadow warrior-clowns bounded past them in scant attire. They winked and flirted, muscular physiques and warrior prowess fading in and out of view. Bal beamed at them, and jealousy ambushed Awa. A waste of heart spirit, but what could she do? “I won’t be a weak good person,” she whispered. “Do you believe me?”

  Bal frowned. “Of course.”

  “Hezram’s power is illusion.” Awa clutched Bal’s hand. “One lying voice from many mouths. We must chant the world we want.”

  “Keep reminding me.” Bal sounded vulnerable.

  Awa leaned back into vie. “I’d do anything for you.” Give up her life even.

  “Yari enchanted the Zamanzi with good stories, not lies. Zamanzi chose to join the rebellion and stop the poison desert. We tried to forgive each other. Yari’s Lahesh diplomacy, that was our escape.” Bal hugged Awa, breathing against her ear, stroking her shoulder, a lovesick hero from one of Yari’s tales. “On missions for Kyrie, Yari and I searched for you everywhere. After almost two years, I lost hope, but Yari went to Holy City, to Hezram and the transgressor huts, looking for you.”

  Awa stiffened. “And Yari never came back.”

  “Not your fault. Yari thought vie could reach Hezram.” Bal kissed her neck. “Yari was right. We can’t give up.”

  Awa shivered. “Agreed.”

  “Did you know Kenu in Holy City? Did he build huts?” Bal pulled a strand of hair and startled a bee who flew to another tight curl and settled in.

  “That bee is my sentinel guard.” Awa squirmed. “Leave her be.”

  “You don’t have to say what happened in those huts. But don’t be ashamed either.”

  “I can tell you this. We can’t just blame Hezram—” Or Father who must have been young and foolish once like Awa and Kenu, who must have turned the wrong direction and when he realized, perhaps he blamed someone else and kept on going wrong.

  “Yes.” Bal sighed. “We all do void-spells.”

  “Well, not today,” Awa declared.

  At the bottom of the garden was a round wooden stage flanked on each side by a three-story onion-domed tower. Cathedral-trunk doors filled the center of the back wall. Storm-cloud curtains fluttered under balconies connecting the onion towers to the wall. The emperor’s citadel across Thunder River looked like part of the set. Ramps ran from the stage almost to the citadel bridge and also up through the raintree groves where an excited audience gathered. Treehouses, connected by rope bridges, swayed in the breeze above the crowd. Awa thought of Jumbajabbaland lovers and tears puddled in her eyes. As a young Sprite, she’d dreamt of being a famous griot in Arkhys City, telling Smokeland tales. She’d imagined Father squirming in the audience as Mother, Kenu, Yari, and Bal applauded. Petty dreams.

  “The elephant is exhausted,” Kyrie said as Mango halted behind a tower. Carrying two people on her neck must
have taken a toll. Elephants had enough to do carrying themselves. “After the show we cross the bridge on foot.” Awa and Bal slid off of Fannie, who was also weary. Kyrie helped Djola down. With his droopy eyes, sunken cheeks, and awkward gait, the poison master resembled a bone masquerade.

  “I look worse than I am.” He spoke to Awa’s and Bal’s grim faces. “If this doesn’t work and tomorrow I should haunt you—”

  “Kyrie says with a Lahesh heart wheel, you could outlive us.” Awa put her hand to his chest. The heart wheel whirred beneath her fingers. Rainbow spirits danced around his foot, doing battle with the void. “Lahesh conjure protects Rainbow Square and you, but the trees protect this oasis, like Mountain Gates. They make the weather here.”

  “Smart girl.” Djola touched his forehead to hers.

  Kyrie and Bal conferred with the players, sharing gossip and news. Books and Bones had gone missing. The Masters of Money and Water called for violent raids on vesons, rich or poor. High priest Ernold rounded up so-called transgressors (mostly vesons, northlanders, and noncitizens) and awaited Hezram’s command. Grain feared for vie’s life. Riots and infighting drove Arms to his wits’ end, yet he masqueraded hope. Azizi trusted nobody and gave into corruption. In a week Hezram could be Emperor with Father’s help.

  Awa choked at grim prospects. “No!”

  “Dochsi, the players won’t mind if we use their costumes.” Bal scowled at her. “What are you thinking?”

  “Sorry.” Awa wasn’t in her right mind. “I talk to myself.”

  “About what?”

  Awa was reluctant to share her fears. “Monster garb is perfect for our storm show.”

  6

  Moon Masquerade

  The cathedral-trunk doors in the backstage wall opened up. Curtains billowed. Drummers, singers, and kora players did rousing melodies in the balconies and side towers. Spark torches flashed in citadel windows across the river, like part of the show. Three masquerades on stilts, several hands taller than Mango, clomped onstage. They wore outlaw cloaks from the north, impervious to weapons and weather like Djola’s.