THIRTEEN
Truly, it was foolish to say I found the boy. I found that he was far away. The Ogo, on hearing my news, grabbed his torch and dashed off to his left, then right, then went into the children’s dwelling, and yanked up so many rugs that a cloud of dust rose up and made itself known, even in the dark.
“The boy is nearly three moons away,” I said.
“What does that mean?” he said. He was still lifting rugs and waving his torch.
“About as far as the East from the West.”
He threw down the rugs and the gust blew out the torch.
“Well at least coming all this way served a purpose,” he said.
“I wonder what purpose it served Sogolon,” I mumbled.
“What?”
I forgot that Ogos had sharp ears. She was here before and not that long ago, perhaps even last night. Back in Fumanguru’s room, among the fallen books and ripped papers, her smell came on most strong. I made one step into the room and stopped. The smell came to me at once, and from every side. Shea butter mixed with charcoal, used on the face and skin to become one with the dark.
“We go out, Sadogo.”
He turned to head to the back wall.
“No, through the front door. It’s already open.”
We cut through the bush and walked right into a group of armed men. Sadogo pulled back, surprised, but I was not. They wore skin dye to blend with night black. I heard the crunch and scrape of the Ogo squeezing his iron knuckles. Ten and five of them standing in a half-moon, lake-blue turbans on their heads, lake-blue veils covering all but eye and nose. A sash the same blue across chest and back, black tunic and breeches underneath. And with spear, bow, spear, bow, spear, bow, and on and on, till the last one, carrying a sword on his left, sheathed, like mine. I held on to my sword but did not pull it out. Sadogo stepped once and knocked an archer out of his way, sending him and the arrow flying. The men turned to him in a blink, pulling back bows and ready to hurl spears. The man with the sword was not dressed as they. He wore a red cape over his right shoulder and under his left, flapping in the wind and slapping the ground. A tunic with the chest open that stopped right above his thighs and tied at the waist with a leather belt that held his sword. He waved them down, but watched me the whole time. Sadogo stood in position, waiting for a fight.
“You look certain we’re not going to kill you,” the swordsman said.
“Mine is not the death I worry about,” I said.
The swordsman glared at us. “I am Mossi, third prefect of the Kongori chieftain army.”
“We took nothing,” I said.
“Such a sword could not be yours. Not when I saw it three nights before.”
“You waiting for anyone, or just us?”
“Leave questions to me and answers to yourself.”
He came in closer until he was right in front of me. He was tall but shorter than me, his eyes almost reached mine, and his face was hidden in black dye. Gourd helmet with an iron stitch running in the middle, though the sun was gone and it was cool. A thin silver necklace, lost in chest bush. Head shaped sharp like an arrowpoint, nose hawk-like, thick lips that curved up as if he was smiling, and eyes so clear I could see them in the dark. Rings in both ears.
“Tell me when you see something that pleases you,” he said.
“That sword is not Kongori,” I said.
“No. It belonged to a slaver from the land of the eastern light. Caught him kidnapping free women to sell as slaves. Wouldn’t part with it without parting with his hand, so …”
“You are the second sword thief I have met.”
“Steal from a thief and the gods smile. What is your name?”
“Tracker.”
“Not your mother’s favorite, then.”
He was close enough for me to feel his breath.
“There’s a devil living in your eye,” he said.
He reached for it with his finger and I flinched.
“Or did he punch you one night?” He pointed at Sadogo.
“Not a devil. A wolf,” I said.
“So when the moon bares herself do you howl at it?”
I said nothing, but watched his men. He pointed at Sadogo, who still tensed his arms, waiting to strike.
“Is he an Ogo?”
“Try to kill him and find out.”
“Nevertheless, this conversation continues at the fort. That way.” He pointed east.
“Is that the fort no prisoner leaves? What if we choose not to go?”
“Then this talk between us, sweet and easy, becomes difficult.”
“We’ll kill at least seven of your men.”
“And my men are very generous with their spears. I can lose seven. Can you lose one? This is not an arrest. I prefer talk where streets don’t listen. Do we understand each other?”
The fort was in the Nimbe quarter near the east bank of the river, with a view of the imperial docks. We went down steps into a room made out of stone and mortar. Two chairs and a table. Candles on the table, which surprised me—candles were not cheap anywhere. I was sitting long enough for a cramp to shock my left leg. I stood up when the Prefect came in. He had washed his face. Black hair that when long would be loose and curly, but thin like the hair of a horse. Hair I have not seen since I was lost in the sand sea. And skin light as dried clay. Men who followed the eastern light looked like this, or men who bought slaves, gold, and civet, but slaves the most. His eyes made sense to me now, and his lips, which looked thicker now but still thinner than anybody else’s in these lands. I could already think of how Ku women and Gangatom women would be horrified at a man looking like this. They would have tied him down and baked him until his skin was the right dark. Legs like the Leopard’s, thick with muscle, as if he fought in a war. Kongori sun made his legs darker. I could tell when he pulled his tunic up higher, past where they were before, high enough to show how light the rest of his legs were and how black his loincloth. He pulled the fabric out of his belt and it fell this time below his knee.
“Expecting a jinn to seat you?” He sat on the table.
“Did a pigeon tell you I was coming?” I asked.
“No.”
“Did you—”
“I am the one to ask the questions.”
“So I am the one to be charged with robbery.”
“That mouth again, ’tis like a loose bowel. I can plug it.”
I glared at him quiet. He smiled.
“Brilliant answer,” he said.
“I said nothing.”
“Your best answer yet. But no. No robbery, since you would be the thief’s fool. But murder is untaken.”
“Kongori jokes. Still the worst in the empire.”
“As I’m not Kongori you should be of more laughter. As for these murders.”
“You cannot kill the dead.”
“Your friend the Ogo already confessed to killing twenty in just as many lands, and shows no sign he will stop.”
I sighed loud. “He was an executioner. He knows not what he speaks,” I said.
“He certainly knows much about killing.”
He looked older than he did in the dark. Or maybe bigger. I really wanted to see his sword.
“Why did you come to Fumanguru’s house tonight?” I asked.
“Perhaps I am heedless. People with blood on their hands tend to wash it where they shed it.”
“That is the most foolish thing I have ever heard.”
“You cast a foolish hand, moving in masquerade and climbing over thornbush yet expecting none to take note.”
“I track lost people.”
“We found them all.”
“You did not find one.”
“Fumanguru had one wife and six boys. They are all accounted for. I counted them. Then we sent for an elder who has since moved to Malakal. Belekun was his name. He confirmed all eight were blood.”
“How soon after did he move?” I asked.
“One, two moons.”
“Did he find the writ?”
“The what?”
“Something he was looking for.”