Master of Poisons

by Andrea Hairston

  “Perhaps they are liars, cowards who don’t want to face us,” Ernold said.

  “They’re almost here.” Arms nodded at Djola. Awa and Meera would soon arrive at the oasis garden.

  “Take your seats. Eat while we wait,” Azizi shouted. Good citizens flooded feast tables. Hezram looked pleased by the audience. Azizi watched them anxiously. Could the emperor be trusted not to go whichever way the water ran? Djola took a sharp breath. Nobody is who you think she is. Mango flapped her ears, cooling them both. Masters sat down on whimsy chairs borrowed from carnival players. Kyrie crouched on a torch-bug stool. Arms sat in a monster’s mouth, Money and Water on the wings of a butterfly.

  Boto laughed as he and Ernold plopped between the tentacles of who could say what sea creature. He winked at Djola when no one was looking then masked his face in a blink. An excellent spy—but for whom? Djola stiffened. Boto or Grain or Azizi could be a weak chink, acquiescing to Hezram’s lies and illusions. Hezram might even have launched more than one traitor. Djola scanned the masters and audience, more alert. He’d been too busy mourning the end of his life to sniff out danger coming. Nothing was as it seemed.

  “Stop worrying.” Kyrie scolded him in Anawanama. Tembe and Hezram eyed her with fear. Good. “Clowns have to play the moment. Whatever it brings.”

  “I was always too serious to be a good clown or maybe too arrogant.” Djola slipped into the trees, into their woody whispers and sweet breath.

  14

  Doubts

  “When I’m a haint in Djola’s Dream Gates, I shall miss you.”

  Awa buried her face in Fannie’s mane, relishing the scent of salt water and sweaty horse. They loped down the long boardwalk at the harbor with Bibi and Meera as boats came in on a full moon tide. Every mooring had a ship or two bobbing in the swell. Sails were tucked away; waterwheels had stilled; lights winked in windows. Bal and a legion of shadow warrior-clowns rode guard. They joined the shadows at the loading docks, hiding in empty stalls and behind storm curtains.

  The warhorses had taken Awa and Meera on a midnight run around Arkhys City so they could feel the neighborhoods, touch silvered gates, and listen to Weeds and Wild Things. The last stop was the docks, where they’d greet travelers coming for the Festival of Memories. Kyrie’s idea, to stop Awa dreading Hezram’s next move. We have to get him out of your head, Kyrie declared. Our story, not Ernold’s or Money’s or Hezram’s. In Jumbajabbaland, Hezram’s spirit slave had known what Awa was thinking before she did. If it weren’t for the bees, she and Azizi would be dead.

  Awa groaned. “Zst!”

  “What?” Meera chewed a hunk of fish and goat cheese. “You’ve said Zst five times.”

  A large cargo boat pulled in. Zamanzi and Anawanama clans disembarked. Thrilled to be in the capital, they donned animal masks and outlaw armor. Two more ships arrived. Tomorrow, on the final day of the Eishne Festival of Memories, Azizi would appoint a new five-year Council. He promised bold changes. Folks from everywhere with tales to tell and hopes to share poured into the capital—refugees, adventurers, scoundrels, and rebels, all taking advantage of open gates. As they disembarked, brave eyes met Awa’s gaze. She forced a smile. Inside Djola’s Dream Gates, the People, green lands, and Weeds and Wild Things would have time to write a different story. A few moments at least. No reason to doubt this.

  Bal materialized from shadows and rode close. City buildings loomed behind vie, gloomy in the night. Each dark window was a promise not kept, an opening into the void, a war about to be waged. Bal touched Awa’s cheek. “What’s the matter?”

  “Everything,” Awa whispered. “Nothing.”

  Bal opened vie’s mouth, then closed it tight.

  “Look at that.” Meera almost squealed.

  Sea sparkle swarmed below the docks. Tiny creatures turned midnight water iridescent green and purple—a miracle. Farther out, dark waves reflected moonlight. Awa had placed Lahesh crystals along the gates, for Djola’s conjure and to honor Yari. She threw one into the sea-sparkle water for Isra.

  “Yari used to sing an ode about a black sea with a shiny edge.” Bal hummed, searching for a tune. “Do you remember?”

  Awa had learned it without meaning to and sang it now:

  When our battles are won

  Who will map endless bloodstains?

  When our brief days are done

  What little shadow remains?

  When the last wave is come

  Who sings the final refrains?

  Silver light creasing a black sea

  That is how to remember me

  “Zamanzi thugs and Anawanama whores! Savage scum!” Shouting curses, a dozen acolytes in Hezram-yellow and Ernold-red ran toward a boat arriving at the farthest dock. Froth seeped from their noses and hearts beat out of rhythm.

  Sand-colored travelers ambled down the gangway. Short, squat folks in pirate pants and Lahesh flame-cloth robes carried spark torches and small catapult weapons. Bushy hair was streaked bronze or braided in swirls. The women had stars tattooed in half circles around their eyes—pirates, not northlanders. Isolationist floating-city folks had ventured off their island for the Eishne Festival. Acolytes hurled rocks and cursed foreign demons come to destroy the Empire. The pirates threw sparks at the acolytes’ feet. Fannie reared. Bibi snorted and kicked too. Acolytes got tripped up by the horses. “Tschupatzi! Queen Urzula has invited us.” The pirates displayed torch weapons.

  “Urzula is a witch!” The acolytes reached under their cloaks. Before they could nock an arrow or throw a knife, Bal and the warrior-clowns hurled nets and tangled them in knotted rope. The pirates cheered, sending sparks into the sky. One red-robed acolyte fell on his own blade. His shrieks were cut short as void-smoke snaked from his wound and got sucked into Awa’s last crystal. The clowns dragged him and the other acolytes into the shadows.

  “Religious fanatics,” a pirate said. She looked like a young Urzula. “They’ve swallowed the void.”

  “I knew we were wrong to come,” replied a man who could have been her brother.

  “Lilot invited us, not the queen,” the woman said.

  Bal jumped to the ground and spoke Lahesh, the diplomat’s tongue. “Welcome to Arkhys City.” Bal could have been a northlander, a pirate from the floating cities, or a barbarian. “Let us take you to Lilot. She and the queen lent us these sparks.” Vie held up Urzula’s torch. “I apologize for the zeal of young men who have yet to grow into their wisdom.” Bal bowed as if vie were the Master of Arms. The warrior-clowns bowed too. Bal stepped toward the pirates. “You see clearly. Those acolytes have swallowed too much void-smoke.”

  “Willingly or force-fed?” The pirate woman also spoke Lahesh, acting like the captain.

  “Will is often an illusion.” Bal grinned. “I offer an honor guard to escort you to the citadel.” Clowns leapt in the air, danced on their hands, and juggled fire weapons. The travelers snapped their fingers, relieved, delighted even.

  “Those acolytes are a danger to themselves,” the pirate woman said, “not to us.”

  “Of course.” Bal bowed again. “This honor guard is for our most esteemed guests.” Our? The rebels? The Empire?

  Charmed, the pirate woman marched down the gangway through cheers, somersaults, and clanging weapons. Her people followed. “We appreciate your generosity.” She smiled at Bal. Warrior-clowns hustled them off into the night.

  Meera scowled. “This is the third ambush.” Yellow cloaks had joined Bog-towners fighting Kahartans. Red cloaks had urged a citizen mob to hang vesons. Bal and the clowns intervened each time. “Those acolytes are … are…”

  Full of the void and acting like Smokeland fiends, but who wanted to say that?

  “Hezram or Council traitors mean to deplete our ranks and rattle our spirits.” Bal scanned the boardwalk. “We can’t linger any longer.” Vie leapt onto the warhorse.

  Meera shook Awa. “You’re not eating.” She stuffed nut bread in Awa’s mouth. “Don’t worry. Kyrie was right to s
end us out. You see how easily we defeat them.”

  Awa chewed. “Do I?”

  15

  Most of All

  Fannie picked up speed along the new wall that led to the Thunder River Gates. Father and Kenu had fashioned silver-mesh that gave off an iridescent light, the purple-green of sea sparkle. The latticework of moonbeam and crossroads Vévés reminded Awa of Djola’s tattoos. When he called up Dream Gates, this would be fortress-conjure that held her spirit and protected everyone she loved. Awa trailed her fingers over cold latticework. Shocks made her heart skip a few beats.

  “It tingles.” Meera brushed fingers along the chilly surface. “Like being startled in the night or turning the corner onto a surprise.”

  The oasis garden was the final stop before the River Gates. They slid off tired horses and walked down a winding path. The trees were brooding columns turning bitter against creatures nibbling at shoots and leaves. Across the river, spark lights in the shape of raintree blossoms lit up citadel windows—Azizi’s libations to Samina, queen of misrule. Awa sang with rustling branches and let her bones catch the rhythm of a hundred hundred roots thrumming under her feet. Meera slipped into the bushes with Rokiat. Bal disappeared with the clowns for last-minute preparations. Crows screeched at roving owls and Fannie munched sweetgrass. Awa took a brush from Djola’s conjure bag and combed burrs from her mane. She stroked the warhorse from withers to tail.

  “Fannie, my heart, when I’m gone, you and Bibi take the herd, and Soot too, and run away, across Mama Zamba to sweetgrass fields and berry bushes, and no people riding you off to war.”

  Fannie nickered, happy to hear this.

  Djola appeared under a treehouse, leaning on Urzula’s cane. Lilot had put a fresh bandage on his foot. The crystal’s facets were filled with smoke. Mango clutched the hem of his cape in her trunk, flapped her ears, and cooled them both. “Council eats while they wait for you,” Djola murmured.

  “I must return this to you.” Awa held out the conjure bag.

  “It’s too heavy for me.” He pushed the bag gently against her chest. “You keep it.”

  Awa used Elder discipline to remain calm. “If something should happen to me, I don’t want Hezram or one of them to get it.”

  “Hezram could not carry such a bag.”

  Insisting Djola take it would reveal her plan to be a willing sacrifice. Azizi and Council needed Djola to check Hezram. Mount Eidhou needed Kyrie to defend it against Ernold and greedy masters. Meera could take care of Mango, Rokiat, Fannie, and the horses. Bal and Soot would protect everyone. Awa, the best smoke-walker, was the right choice to power the Dream Gates. She’d have to give the bag to Kyrie or Bal. She’d never gotten to read through its countless treasures. Someone should.

  “All goes as planned.” Djola stroked Fannie. Awa marveled at his faith. “What? You don’t believe me?”

  “I don’t know what to think,” she whispered.

  “Your plan.” Djola beamed at her. He’d get over being mad at her deceit. “Council agreed to listen to transgressor witnesses. The People have gathered to hear you too.” He was warmth and love, as sentimental as Yari—what Father couldn’t manage and Mother had been denied. Djola reached his bare lethal hand toward her, touching a cheek. His fingers were cool and tingled like the gates. “Xhalan Xhala. Your tomorrow is so bright … I can’t see it.” He brushed his lips over the palm of her burnt hand while touching her forehead, a sign of respect to a great griot. “A mountain is either being worn down or rising up.”

  Awa sputtered at praise for an Iyalawo wise woman. Death was near and she should take care with last words. It had been easier singing with the trees and talking to Fannie. “We’ll speak the change-spell together.” She pressed her forehead to Djola’s, like a daughter. “I feel light and full.”

  “Everyone is in position.” Bal dropped from a branch in front of them.

  Still holding Awa’s hand, Djola pressed his forehead to Bal’s. “Whatever happens, I leave you a legacy of love. Share my memory.” Bal was thrilled at his somber words. Djola was the story vie had longed for. Awa hugged them both, and then Djola hobbled away.

  “Djola loves the world again.” Bal watched him and Mango head to Council. Djola would help Bal with grief. “But he loves you most of all.”

  “No, he doesn’t.” Awa pressed her body against Bal’s, feeling taut muscles, soft skin at vie’s neck, and sharp bones at the collar. She drew in Bal’s sweaty, spicy scent and wanted to do things she’d seen Smokeland lovers do in the treehouses. Instead, she kissed vie wherever she could find bare skin. “It’s you who loves me most of all.” An old woman clown leered at them from a branch and sang a bawdy melody. Others added harmony. Bal’s lips and tongue made Awa tingle, cold conjure on her hot skin. Back from the bushes, Meera giggled at their moans and squeals. Awa pulled away. “I’d love to grab Mango and the horses, escape to Kyrie’s mountain, and make good stories together, but—” She held up Djola’s conjure bag.

  Bal threw it over her strong arm. “What are you doing tomorrow?” Vie stuffed Awa’s unruly hair under the head wrap. “And the next day?”

  “Tomorrow is a mystery,” Awa replied. “So is the day after.”

  “I love mystery.” Bal grinned, as cheeky and arrogant as Djola. Soft, wet lips traced Awa’s collarbone, tickling the hollow above her breasts.

  Awa lifted Bal’s chin, savoring the prickles and heat. “Any more and I won’t be able to do what we have to do.”

  Bal nipped her nose. “So, later then.”

  “We should go,” Meera said.

  “Yari talked and drummed our way out of that Zamanzi camp.” Bal saluted Awa. “You’re the griot now and I’m the drummer, making the story we want.”

  “Yes.” Awa slipped a Lahesh crystal into Bal’s hand.

  “What is this?” Vie held it up to the moon.

  “My last one,” Awa said. “Rogue impulse.”

  Bal’s lips trembled. “You should keep this. For the crossroads gods.”

  “I’ll have other protection, a potion from Kyrie.” Awa shifted the conjure bag’s strap across her body. She’d give it to Kyrie when Kyrie gave her the poison. “I wish I hadn’t been a weak good person—”

  “I wish I’d never said that to you. Together—”

  Awa groaned. “Don’t say it.”

  “But we aren’t weak together.” Bal said it. “We make each other strong.”

  Awa put her lips on Bal’s and let their tongues dance, stopping more Elder wisdom. Reluctantly, Bal slipped into the shadows and Awa stumbled over roots.

  Meera steadied her. “We can do this.” She gave Awa a spark torch.

  “You’re shivering.” Awa offered Meera her Mama Zamba travel cloak and boots. Awa smiled at her friend’s big feet. “You take these. I’m too hot.”

  They walked arm in arm past lanterns along the city wall to the Council gathering.

  16

  Change the Story

  The Empire’s power masters squirmed in whimsy chairs around a flying-jackal table. Sitting under the stars, they shivered in fog from the river and flickered in the glare of the jackal’s fire eyes. Awa chuckled, despite walking into battle, into the end of her life. This outdoor Council reminded her of the boat people and adventures in Smokeland, even if some masters picked fish from their teeth and sneered. Azizi raised his hand in greeting, and all chatter died out. Azizi’s heartbeat was strong and steady. He smiled. Kyrie nodded at Awa and Meera, as fierce as her mountain looming in the background.

  Two masters had blank yet identical twitchy faces—Money and Water. Perhaps they waited to see which way the water would run. Arms hardly glanced at Awa and Meera. He tracked the crowd beyond the table, the folks in the trees, and a crew at the gates. Mother sat with Lilot and floating-city pirates. She looked ready to fade away. Soot’s head was in her lap; his tail thumped. Behind Mother, Queen Urzula argued with the young pirate from the docks (her son?) and the pirate captain who looked like Urzula m
ust have twenty years ago (her daughter?).

  Mother perked up as Awa and Meera walked by. Soot licked Awa’s hand. Other faces in the audience displayed disgust and shock at transgressors attending such an occasion. Kenu and Father slouched against sea-sparkle gates. Kenu touched the snake birthmark on his cheek and muttered. Elder discipline allowed Awa to keep walking.

  “I didn’t know it would be so many people,” Meera whispered. “You start.”

  Someone muttered transgressor whore, and Awa wished she’d covered bare skin. Open wounds had scabbed over, yet the scars were obvious transgressor marks. No way to conceal a twisted leg or a mangled arm. She and Meera were too thin. At least Meera had ample breasts and hips, although freckles marred her face, shoulders, and bosom. And why was Kenu still muttering at her?

  Awa patted the Aido headdress Bal had fashioned for her. The pattern was a hundred different maps of the same territory: All memory is illusion. Wise people craft truth from their illusions. Awa shook tension from her limbs. Last thoughts should not be wasted on worrying about a traitor family or how she and Meera looked to masters, high priests, and good citizens. What mattered was the gate-spell. Bal would play Yari’s talking drum and sing. Awa would lose herself in the music and find a new story. Abelzowadyo. This was her crossover ceremony.

  “You start,” Meera whispered in her ears again.

  Awa bowed to Azizi, then bowed in a circle to everyone. “Greetings, we are—”

  “Abominations,” Hezram roared. Players straddled djembe drums bigger than Awa and beat anxious strokes that drowned out her protests. Squawking crows cut through the music. Hezram blew flames in the air, scattering the crows. “Filthy scavengers.” Many applauded his carnival trick. Awa’s heart ached as birds on fire plummeted toward the ground, and she didn’t even like crows.

  “You’re the horror,” Meera shouted at Hezram.

  “You address Council, not the witchdoctor of dreams.” High priest Ernold chastised her, his red robes billowing. “Tell your tale. You waste our patience.”