another place, so we went by tunnel to a roof. First he told me that many still go to the Fumanguru house. Including some of you.”
“Of course.”
“And others in your uniform.”
“I only went there twice. Alone.”
“There were others.”
“Not without my order.”
“He said—”
“You trust the good word of a prostitute over a man of justice?”
“You’re a man of order, not justice,” I said.
“Continue with your story.”
“No surprise you confuse the two.”
“Continue, I say.”
“He told me all who still go by the Fumanguru house—looking for what, he didn’t know. Then he tried to cast a spell on me with kohl dust dried in viper venom,” I said.
“And you live? One breath could have killed a horse. Or made you a zombi.”
“I know. I threw him off the roof.”
“The gods, Tracker. Is he dead too?”
“No. But you are right. He tried to make me a zombi, to drag me back to his room. Then he would release a pigeon to let someone know he has me. I released the pigeon myself. Trust me, prefect, it was not long before a man came to the room, with weapons, but I think he came to take me, not kill me.”
“Take you where? To who?”
“I killed him before I could find out. He was dressed as a prefect.”
“The trail of bodies you are leaving behind, Tracker. Soon the whole city will stink because of you.”
“I said he was dressed as a—”
“I heard what you said.”
“He didn’t leave a body. I will tell you more of that later. But this. When he died I saw something like black wings leave him.”
“Of course. What is a story without beautiful black wings? What has any of this to do with the boy?”
“I seek the boy. That is why I am here. A slaver hired me and some others, strangers to your city, to search for the boy. Together at first, but most have gone their own way. But others seek the boy. No, not hired by the slaver. I cannot tell if they follow us or are one step ahead of us. They have tried to kill us before.”
“Well you do not slack when it comes to killing, Tracker.”
“We were sent here for a reason. To see from where he was taken, yes, but more to see where they went.”
“Oh. There is still much you are not telling me. Like who is this they? Were there people who came to kill him, and people who came to save him? And if the people who came to save him then took him, what is that to you? Would he not be safer with them than with you?”
“The people who saved him lost him.”
“Of course. Maybe the same people sold him to witches.”
“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