Black Leopard, Red Wolf

“No, but they trusted the wrong people. But there is this. I think I know who he is, this b—”

“This still follows no sense. I have a different idea.”

“You do.”

“Yes, I do.”

“The world awaits.”

“Your trusted Fumanguru was a part of the illicit arts, or trades. Makes no difference; both result in innocents sold, raped, or killed. He dug a hole for himself so deep and wide that he fell into it. It was a clean kill, a complete kill, all but the boy. As long as the boy is alive, all accounts are not settled. Those are the people after your boy.”

“A good argument. Except most do not know of the boy. Not even you until I told you.”

“What, then?”

“He was protecting the boy. Hiding him. He would have been but a baby back then. You should know that I know who this boy is. I have no proof, but when I do, he will be who I think he is. Until I do, what is this?”

I handed him the paper strip I took from the pigeon. He brought it right to his nose, then held it away from his face. “This is in the same style as the glyphs on the writ. It says, News of the boy, come now.”

“The prefect who tried to kill me had these things branded on his chest.”

“This?”

“Clearly not this. But characters in this style.”

“Do you—”

“No, I don’t remember. But Fumanguru uses their tongue.”

“Such a puzzle, Tracker. The more you tell me, the less I know.”

“Was that all? All of what Fumanguru wrote?”

He looked through the papers again. Two more smelled of soured milk. He traced each mark with his hand as I read them.

“It is instructions,” he said. “‘Take him to Mitu, to the guided hand of the one-eyed one, walk through Mweru and let it eat your trail.’ This is what it says.”

“No man comes back from the Mweru.”

“Is that true? Or what old wives say? This last of this text is unreadable to me.”

“Why would he send him there? He will be a man too,” I said.

“Who will be a man?”

“I was talking to myself.”

“No mothers taught you this was rude? You said you knew who he is, this child. Who is he?”

I looked at him.

“Then tell me who gives him chase and why.”

“That would be to tell you who he is.”

“Tracker, I cannot help you this way.”

“Who asked for your help?”

“Of course, the gods must smile at how far you have come on your own.”

“Listen. There have been three who hired me to find this child. A slaver, a river spirit, and a witch. Between them, they have told me five stories so far of who this child is.”

“Five lies to find him or save him?”

“Both. Neither.”

“They wish that you save him, but do not wish that you know who you save. Are you one to betray him?”

“I wondered how a prefect felt about men for hire.”

“No, you wondered how I feel about you.”

He started walking around the stacks, behind a wall of them. I could hear the slight drag of one foot, a limp that he masked well.

“But this is the hall of records, is it not?” he said.

“’Tis your city.”

“Who records the lives of kings?”

I turned and pointed behind the keeper’s desk. He would not return tonight, that was sure. The book was also leaves, sewn rough and uneven, and bound in a leather sleeve, dustier than the others. An account of Kwash Dara, up until that day. His name, in a line with his two brothers, and one sister. One brother married the daughter of the Queen of Dolingo, to build an alliance. One married the widow of a chieftain with little land, but great wealth in the grasslands. The oldest sister is listed first among the women, and here it said only that she gave over her life to serving Wapa, the goddess of earth, fertility, and women, after her husband, a prince from Juba, died at his own hand, taking also their children. The story says nothing of where she went, nothing of a mountain fortress.

“What of older kings? Kings of the ages before this one?” said Mossi.

“The griots. Even with the written word, the true mark of a king would have been men committing their story to memory, to recite it as in poetry, or when the people gather to hear praise of famous men. Here is my guess. Written accounts of kings began only with Kwash Netu’s age. The rest belong only in the voices of the griots. And there is the problem. The men who sing about the deeds of all kings are in the King’s employ.”

“Oh.”

“There are others. Griots whose record of the kings the King does not know. Men who wrote secret verses, men with songs that would get them executed, and the songs forbidden.”

“Who would they sing them to?”

“To themselves. Some men think truth only needs to be in service to truth.”

“Alas, dead men then.”

“Most. But there are two, maybe three whose songs go back a thousand years.”

“Do they claim to go back a thousand years as well?”

“Why do you limp?”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh, boy of such wayward fate. You know, Tracker, you have ventured very far in this, and not once have you even given things a whisper.”

“What things?”

“You speaking intrigue on who is still your King. Or that as prefect I am his servant.”