Mango flapped her ears at snake-eyed sea monsters with iron teeth, fat bellies, and tentacles. Diamond-tipped claws on their tentacles dripped fabric blood. Fire blasted from cavernous mouths. Bal shrieked with the children. Awa groaned. While they wasted time applauding a masquerade, Hezram could ignore protocol and topple Azizi.
“Abelzowadyo.” A patchwork clown with beaded braids and a silver mustache burst onto the balcony over the stage. “Greetings.” His deep resonant voice was a guest in Zamanzi. He winked at Awa and her troupe. “Tomorrow is now and yesterday.” He jumped to a tower ledge then to the ground, where he shifted to Empire vernacular. “Hold your purse. Clutch your child. The gods of carnival are rainbow spirits. Watch your heart. Crossroads tricksters crack you apart, and everything goes upside down and inside out, right side wrong and backside front.” He spun around in billowing curtains and displayed a woman’s face and form. “Nobody”—her voice rang like a bell, high and clear—“is who you think she is.” The audience applauded carnival conjure.
Even Awa was captivated as an iron horse with a cloud-silk mane and feather tail glided through the curtains on a cart and bumped the shapeshifter. She and Bal squealed at the horse’s ruby eyes and golden heart wheel. Smoke poured from flared nostrils and enveloped the clown who jumped up on the horse backward. His silver mustache twitched in the first face again, but the womanly form persisted. “Welcome.” This voice was high with deep overtones. “We shapeshifters tell an old tale from before the void, a story learned from Yari, the griot of griots, who heard it from Anawanama ancestors.” The audience roared their delight. Nobody jeered at a man-woman masquerade, a Lahesh trickster. The cart revolved and the clown proclaimed, “Today and tomorrow, we discover who we are together.” Vie disappeared beyond the curtains shouting, “Xhalan Xhala.” Djola jerked at Lahesh conjure words.
Awa patted his shoulder. “Tomorrow in yesterday need not be pain.”
Djola jerked again. “Yes, Samina said that too. Xhalan Xhala is not just bleak visions.”
Talking drums hushed the crowd. Even the noisy slurping of free festival food ceased. A warhorse pranced through the storm-cloud curtains as Green Elder music wafted from the trees. Two acrobats in moon masks and black cloaks dropped from a raintree branch and landed back-to-back on the red gelding. Tiny crystals on their cloaks sparkled and moon faces glowed.
Awa recognized warhorse and players. “The Zamanzi twins from Holy City huts.”
“Rebels now,” Bal said.
“Zst!” Kyrie shushed them.
Fish acrobats burst up from stage trapdoors, trailing blue-green fabric. They tumbled underfoot, like waves rising and falling. Above the audience, Green Elders materialized in a treehouse—the griots from the back alley. They spoke the Anawanama legend in Empire vernacular while the moon masks and stilt monsters danced the tale:
Long, long ago, greedy demons came out of the seas and swallowed up cities, green lands, animals, people, rocks, and rivers. Wherever the demons roamed was soon barren wasteland and they were forced to travel from region to region, on and on, across the Earth. One night after eating a forest mountain and drinking a sweet inland sea, the demons were hungry still. Dying birds had whispered of the last mountain cliffs that sheltered a sweet blue lake and bush trees. The demons prepared to cross the Salty Sea to gobble these final delights.
The Moon took pity on the Earth and sang to the demons of hidden delights beyond bright peaks. Dazzled, the demons flew up on silver light beams and, feasting for a month, they ate the Moon. They swallowed every silver beam. In the darkness that followed, the demons lost their way home. Pricks of starlight carried them nowhere. Crashing about in the night sky, the demons barely resisted eating each other or the Moon as it slowly grew back, making something from nothing. The demons needed all the moonlight to return to Earth where new delights awaited them. Just when the Moon was full and fat and bright, greed triumphed, and the foolish creatures devoured the light once more. Look up in the night, the demons are at it every month. The Moon is a hero saving us again and again.
Bal joined the griots, singing:
Warrior, warrior, have you forgotten?
Greed makes even sweet apples rotten
Warrior, warrior sweet enemy mine
Will this be our last time?
The moon acrobats jumped from the red horse into the stilt walkers’ fiery mouths and disappeared. The audience leapt to their feet, snapping fingers and clapping. The demon masquerades took off their masks and bounded from stilts to tower ledges to the stage floor. Moon and fish acrobats revealed their faces also. Anawanama, Zamanzi, and Lahesh players lifted their arms and the audience showered them with flower petals.
Awa sat still amidst the hullabaloo, playing a polyrhythm of conflicting ideas, trying to think a knotted thing apart. The grass terrace was soft and wet under her toes and butt. The buttery raintree scent was intoxicating. Hummingbirds fussed and fought over the best blossoms. Awa tugged Djola’s arm and shouted over the cheering crowd. “What if we or you conjured Mountain Gates around Arkhys City, instead of Nightmare Gates? Not a cure, but a respite, an oasis while rebels work for change?” Djola and Kyrie exchanged glances as Awa continued. “You two must know spells we could use. Lahesh conjure? Something from Vandana’s small bag?”
Bal was thrilled. “I knew the masquerade would give us good ideas.”
“Well, I didn’t,” Awa admitted.
“I don’t trust my hand or my vision,” Djola muttered.
“Good vision takes many eyes looking every direction.” Bal quoted The Green Elder Songs for Living and Dying, and Djola cursed. He’d quoted that song to Awa.
Kyrie grinned. “You mean to steal Hezram’s gates?”
“Yes.” Awa would do whatever it took to counter Father’s spells. Maybe he’d never had a chance to change the weather, but … “I won’t be a weak good person.”
Bal groaned. “I’m sorry I said that.”
“Without trees and bush, we’ll have to commandeer silver-mesh and find a willing sacrifice.” Kyrie squinted at Awa’s resolve. “Why not? Let’s talk more later.”
“Anawanama perform moon masquerade before a battle,” Djola said. “What are the rebels up to?”
“Reminding us what we fight and perhaps die for,” Bal said, enthusiastically.
The piebald crow swooped around Awa’s hat and flew off. Awa turned from the stage to watch the bird soar. The sky flushed orange and the wind moaned like a dying thing. The afternoon sandstorm raced toward the market, an hour before midday. Crows screeched and bells clanged in Rainbow Square. The audience was suddenly still. Fear scented the air. Players bowed one last time before racing into the towers and slamming windows shut.
The Master of Arms and his warriors kept panic in check. The audience mumble-grumbled but, row by row, headed to Zamanzi storm tents at the base of cathedral trees ringing the garden. Cotton woven with Lahesh metal-mesh threads glinted in the sun. Poison dust could not penetrate the shelters. Arms clutched a squealing child who’d lost his family. The boy tugged his beard. Arms whispered nonsense and waved his sword at anyone about to bolt.
“So orderly and fast.” Awa marveled at the crowd.
“They dance with a dust storm almost every day,” Bal said.
“Our show now.” Kyrie led the troupe up a ramp to the empty stage.
Awa dropped a moon mask in Vandana’s bag. Kyrie grabbed two sea-monster robes and with Bal’s help draped Fannie and Mango. The Anawanama weave of gold thread and sweetgrass was as powerful as the silver-mesh Djola gave out to protect eyes, nose, and ears. Awa and Soot had mesh veils in their hats.
“Abelzowadyo.” The shapeshifter clown smiled at her from a treehouse then pulled down a heavy drape. Stage towers and treehouses were storm shelters too. Void whirlwinds danced everywhere in the market but avoided the wall of trees that surrounded the oasis. Only a few tendrils lapped the storm shelters. The trees made the weather here—just as Awa suspected.
&n
bsp; “Hurry,” Kyrie shouted and led Mango and Fannie onto the citadel bridge.
Bal shouldered Djola’s weight. Their three-legged walk was well-rehearsed. Awa stumbled behind them, Soot at her side. Crows roosting deep in cathedral branches squawked at foolish people hobbling into danger. At the end of the bridge, dust, ash, and sparks scoured any exposed skin. Kyrie signaled a halt. If guards were posted beyond the citadel gates, they were invisible in dust squalls at the entrance. Soot snapped at Awa when she tugged the mesh over his eyes. Void dust sparked in his coat. Awa hugged him inside her cloak, then dropped the veil over her face. The eerie darkness was claustrophobic. Urzula’s spark torches were gust-proof and visible through mesh, yet Awa saw nothing. Something was wrong. Chief cook Lilot should have already lit the torches. Fannie dumped a mound of manure, Mango sneezed, and Soot whined. A strong hand gripped Awa’s bad arm from behind. She turned and saw two bright torches.
“Lilot, Urzula,” Kyrie shouted.
The queen and her cook had come out to escort them into the citadel. Awa swallowed panic. Short, squat, and fierce like Kyrie, they had metallic-colored hair and Lahesh flame-cloth robes that were visible in the torchlight. Mango rumbled everybody’s relief into the ground.
“Welcome,” Urzula said. “Our son and daughter enjoy the wisdom and isolation of the floating cities. They’ve begged us to join them, but—”
“Tschupatzi!” Lilot grunted a floating-city curse.
Urzula shushed Lilot and continued the greeting, her voice like gentle rain wearing away at rocks. “But, like you, we have yet to cry defeat on Empire soil. Come.”
The troupe followed their lights toward the cook’s entrance. Soot licked Awa’s hands and whined. He was worried too. What if the doorway wasn’t big enough for a warhorse and an elephant?
7
A Maze of Odors
The void dust storm finally blows itself out. Soot pads close to Awa. Two pirate women, smelling of lightning, herbs, and cooking pots, lead Awa’s pack through a stone courtyard. They douse the lightning on their torches with bare hands. Soot feels Awa’s distress when they lead Mango and Fannie into the citadel’s grassy corral. Fannie can open latches. Mango can rip up posts or chains. They are not prisoners and always happy for wide open spaces and sweetgrass. Awa buries her face in Fannie’s mane and clutches Mango’s trunk. She smells sad. Soot licks her hands, offering comfort.
The pirate women creep into a dank hallway. Many anxious people sneak through here, some are sick, some full of love or about to give birth, some run for their lives. Rats live in the crevices and jackals hunt them, pissing on the walls, declaring themselves. Hyenas tiptoe here and there. Soot doesn’t recognize anyone. Kyrie charges ahead, flying around a bend behind the pirate women. Bal almost carries Djola on vie’s back and trudges as slowly as Awa, who limps across cold stone. Awa has more strength than in the mountains, yet no speed. She, Bal, and Djola breathe heavily and make no other sound, as if they hunt prey or avoid a rival pack. They fall far behind the others. Soot stays close to Awa, ready for human ambush or hyena attack.
Many hallways intersect at the bottom of a narrow stairway, and Soot halts, catching a wind stream from a distant doorway. He smells Hezram. His heart pounds, he growls and sniffs ten times for each of his heartbeats. Bal drags Djola up the first step.
Awa hesitates and asks, “Can you manage?”
Soot doesn’t hear Bal’s answer. Exhaling out the sides of his nose, he maps the continuous flow of scents. The citadel is a maze of odors with eddies from yesterday, last year, and who knows how long ago. Soot concentrates, poking his nose along Hezram’s pungent trail. He swallows a bark. The witchdoctor’s aroma is mixed with duck fat, cathedral tree oil, transgressor blood, goat milk, snake venom, poison sand, and ash. He’s been on a warhorse, down by the sea, and he drank coconut wine.
Hezram walked this way a few hours ago. A tang of Yari clings to him—sugarbush and desert rose. Hezram carries scrolls and ink, like Djola, and potions to dull the mind and trick the spirit. Hezram is unwell and has many wounds that won’t heal. Soot notes sour breath, feverish oily sweat, and distress flatulence. Bal, Djola, and Awa have gone several steps up the stairs. Soot can catch them easily. He takes a moment to sort through other smells. Hezram walks with the mountain woman who worries over him and also Awa’s friends from Holy City—Meera and Rokiat. They smell bloody, hopeless, defeated. They are surrounded by a hostile pack. Several men, who drink blood and tree oil like Hezram, are anxious, ready for a fight.
Soot’s lips curl, exposing fangs as he races up the stairs ahead of the whole pack. At the top, Hezram’s scent flows around a bend. Soot barks and barks and barks. Kyrie races up behind him and grips his muzzle. Her hands taste like a lightning storm, like the torches. The pirate women make irritation noises and pat his head. They hurry left into shadows. Soot turns right to hunt Hezram. He is a strong old wolf, obliged to follow no one. He wags his tail to disperse power odors and frighten weak enemies. Hezram is close. Soot creeps down the sunlit hall, tail high, ears flat. The trail is stronger every step. Hezram carries pieces of Yari: a cloud-silk robe, an ancient scroll, braid beads and ties. Soot pauses, confused. Yari-odors are good time memories.
Every so often Soot finds smoke-walkers whose adventures smell compelling—Awa, Yari, and a few others, Soot does not count. The good journeys blur together. Soot remembers exciting food, novel aromas, and cliffs to climb. Awa, Yari, and Soot were always rolling in sweetgrass and riding frothy ocean waves with the boat people. Best of all was soaring over cathedral trees, static wind in his fur. Now and again, Soot ventured into the everyday with Awa and Yari for weighty, smelly fun. But since bloody Hezram started stealing people and sucking elder trees dry, there is little fun in Jumbajabbaland and too much danger. Spirit slaves suck anyone and anything to ash and smoke. Soot has been trapped in the everyday too long.
Awa gripes. “I hate secret passageways.”
Soot barks at her to hurry up the stairs. He catches a hint of nut bread, honey wine, and moth cocoons. Yari wore cocoons when Hezram poisoned vie in Jumbajabbaland. Since losing Yari, Soot doesn’t risk more than a brief trip beyond the smoke. Hezram or some priest might take him prisoner or turn him to smoke. Fiends rule most regions. Soot has only found the cold, lonely realm once or twice, by accident—running for his life, taking a desperate turn.
Awa is out of breath and sweating at the top of the stairs. Still, she scratches his head, ready for anything. Eager, Soot creeps toward Hezram. Awa points the direction Kyrie and the pirate women go. Soot sticks his nose in a pile of dead bugs and barks. Awa rubs her face. Soot whines. She drags herself toward him, glancing back at Bal and Djola. They follow Kyrie also.
“What have you got your nose in?” Awa stares at the dead bugs. She wants to shriek and jump, but looks around, wary of a hostile pack stealing Soot’s find. She picks the bugs up, buries her nose in them, scenting friends. “The anklet I made for Meera.” Tears blur her eyes. “She didn’t want to wear nasty cocoons and dead beetles, but Rokiat liked the sound when they danced or when they…” Awa kisses Soot’s head. “Are Rokiat and Meera here?” He wags his tail. She swallows sorrow and turns. “Soot’s found someone,” she calls to Bal and Djola, “I’ll catch up with you.”
Soot barks over what Bal and Djola reply. He wags his butt, thrilled at Awa’s desire to join the hunt. He races on, following Hezram’s trail. Awa drags her battered leg behind him.
“If Meera and Rokiat went this way, we could be walking into danger. Hezram…”
Soot growls at the name. Men with bloody weapons are coming their way, from the direction Soot wants to go. He sits by an open window, licks his nose, and tastes friendly odors riding a late-afternoon breeze across the courtyard. Going through Smokeland, he can reach the place he wants to go, but the risk would be great. Awa is with him on the hunt, eager and fearless. Soot decides stepping through the border-void is better than fighting five men with blades. Awa reaches him. Soot jumps up,
puts his paws on her shoulder, and licks her face. On hind legs, he is taller than Awa. She pulls her head away from his reassuring tongue, yet wraps her arms around his back and buries her face in his fur.
Soot steps sideways with Awa into Jumbajabbaland.
“Farts and fleas! Where are we going?”
No lingering, Soot sidesteps again. Awa’s heart pounds against his. She is excited, unafraid. He can’t help licking her face. They’re on the other side of the citadel in a small dark room. The void clings to his coat, sparking and crackling. He shakes it off and barks quietly. Who wouldn’t be excited?
Awa rubs Soot’s head. “Like the bees. You must show me how to do that.”
Rokiat stands guard outside the cell. Soot nudges Awa to a corner where people, asleep or drugged, are tied to the wall. Soot licks Meera’s arm carefully, cleaning a wound. Meera groans, pushing him away. Awa’s heart jumps, but she remains quiet.
“Wake up,” Awa whispers, stroking Meera’s face, drizzling honey and bitter roots into her mouth. “We’ve come for you.”
“Awa?” Meera opens her eyes, frightened, unsure. “You can’t be here.”
“Of course I can.” Awa scans the room. “Zst! Fresh blood and spirit slaves—together.”
Meera grips her. “That was you whistling to the horses, at the Mountain Gates.”
Others from Holy City (who stink more like Hezram than themselves) lie about in rank shadows, snorting and rattling their lips. Soot growls at the mound of breath bodies filled with poison, like Yari. He keeps his distance. Spirit slaves are clumsy in the everyday, but can drink a body dry. Awa unties a tangle of ropes and drags Meera to the door. Rokiat paces outside, singing. Soot would like to sing with him, even a sad song, but this is a silent hunt. Awa and Meera hug, whimpering and blubbering.
“What’s going on?” Rokiat uses keys to open the door. “How did you get in there?”
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