the doll, but bigger so—if this boy was the reason he and his family were hunted and killed by Omoluzu. But there was nothing here of the boy’s worth, nothing here of the boy’s kin, nothing here even of the boy’s use. Fumanguru was keeping him a secret even from his own records. In his way, keeping him secret even from himself. And among smells was something sour coming from the pages. Something spilled and dried, but from an animal, not from the ground or of the palm or the vine. Milk. Vanished from sight now, but still there. I remembered a woman suckling a baby who sent me in a most curious way a message to save her from her husband and captor. I reached for the candle.
“Bigger fires have started from smaller flames,” he said.
I jumped and reached for my axes, but his sword was already at my neck. I had smelled myrrh but thought it was an old bottle the library master had behind him.
The prefect.
“Did you follow me or have me followed?” I asked.
“Do you mean will you need to kill one man or two?”
“I never—”
“You still wear that curtain? Even after two days?”
“By the gods, if one more man says I wear a curtain …”
“That is a pattern on the drapes of rich men. Are you not river folk? Why not just wear ochre and butter?”
“Because you Kongori think strange about dress and undress.”
“I am not Kongori.”
“Your sword is at my neck. Answer my question.”
“I followed you myself. But grew tired when I saw the giant would cry to you the entire night. His stories were amusing, but his crying was insufferable. That is not how we mourn in the East.”
“You’re not in the East.”
“And you are not among the Ku. Now why were you about to burn that note?”
“Take your blade away from my neck.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because there is a blade between my big toes. Kill me and I might just fall and die before you. Or I could kick and you become a eunuch.”
“Put that down.”
“You think I have come all this way to burn this?” I said.
“I don’t think anything.”
“Not a new thing for a prefect.”
He pushed the blade harder against my neck.
“The paper. Down.”
I put the paper down and looked up at him. “Look at me,” I said. “I shall hold this paper over this flame, for I feel it will reveal something to me. I do not know you, nor do I know how stupid you are, but I cannot make what I say any simpler.”
He withdrew the sword.
“How do I know this?” he said.
“You will have to trust me.”
“Trust you? I don’t even like you.”
We stared at each other for a long time. I grabbed a sheet, the one most sour.
“You and your curtain for a dress,” he said.
“Will you not stop until I am off with my clothes?”
I waited for a sharp reply, but it never came. I would have gone there, trying to figure out why the sharp reply never came, or try to catch him before he hid it from his face, but I did not.
“What are you—”
“Please, be quiet. Or at least watch for the keeper.”
He stopped talking and shook his head. Fumanguru had written these writs in red ink, bright in colour but light in tone. I pulled the candle closer to me, then held the sheet right over the flame.
“’Tis Mossi.”
“What?”
“My name. The name you have forgotten. It is Mossi.”
I lowered the flame so that I could see the flicker through the paper and feel the warmth on my finger. Figures took shape. Glyphs, letters moving left to right or right to left, I did not know. Glyphs written in milk so they would be hidden until now. My nose led me to four more pages smelling of milk. I ran them over the fire until glyphs appeared, line after line, row after row. I smiled and looked up at the prefect.
“What are those?” he asked.
“You said you are from the East?”
“No, my skin went pale when all the colour washed off.”
I stared at him blankly until he said something else.
“North, then east,” he said.
I handed the first paper to him.
“These are coastal glyphs. Cruel letters, the people call them. Can you read them?”
“No,” I said.
“I can read some of it.”
“What … do … they …”
“I’m no master of ancient marks. You think Fumanguru made these?”