went with the djombi to the third observation point. How many times had she thought that if only Ansige could see how he appeared to others, he would be desperate to change?
The baccou was tearing messily through the larder, throwing food down and smearing his face with flour, molasses, anything that would stick and look ridiculous. When the boy saw him, he sat down on the floor and wept helplessly until the baccou stopped his rampage and squatted down beside him, a sympathetic expression on his face.
'It's not so much fun anymore, is it?’ he asked the boy softly.
'N-no,’ the boy sobbed.
'Well, it's not fun for me anymore, either. Call me up again if you want me, but you can have your skin back now.'
Then there was only the boy, sitting in a mess on the floor, his face and clothes dirty. He hiccupped once, looked around with scared eyes as if waiting for something to pounce, and then crept out of the room.
'That's done,’ said the baccou with satisfaction, back to his indistinct form once more. ‘Seems a ridiculous job when you think about it, but some derive benefit from the exercise. But you had a question?'
He rounded on Paama, who was taken aback at first, but then she bravely spoke her thought. ‘I was just wondering, does it only work for children? It's just that??ell??'ve got this husband, Ansige?'
The shape flickered in a manner that somehow seemed apologetic. ‘Ansige the Glutton? I'm sorry. No-one's going to be assigned to him. Not much time left there.'
Paama was stunned by the pang of fear and worry that shot through her bones and drained her of strength. ‘Not much time?'
'I'd go visit if I were you. Anyway, can't hang around. Another call is coming through. Toodle-oots.'
And with that, he vanished.
Paama sat weakly on the nearest chair. ‘Ansige?’ she said softly to herself.
'Tell me where he lives,’ said the djombi quietly. ‘I'll take you there now.'
20
kwame meets the sisters and begins the hunt
Kwame was not allowed any farther than the courtyard of the House of the Sisters. The four who had hired him sat before him on a long wooden bench, looking far too much like a tribunal.
'A woman is missing,’ said Sister Jani.
Kwame was an experienced tracker. That meant that whatever the Trickster had told him had been temporarily set aside so that he could listen to what the Sisters had to say without making any assumptions.
'Describe her to me.'
The Sisters looked at each other, and then Sister Jani answered, ‘She has courage. She has braved scorn and ridicule, which can tear the soul more viciously than vultures at a corpse. She has managed to keep her self- esteem intact.'
'She has compassion and discretion,’ added Sister Elen. ‘She does not pull down the weak, and the secrets of others are safe with her.'
'She has integrity,’ continued Sister Deian. ‘When she goes about doing what is right, she does not consider solely her own benefit.'
'She has the most beautiful dreams,’ concluded Sister Carmis on a wistful note.
Kwame listened politely, and then he coughed even more politely. ‘I meant, what does she look like?'
The Sisters appeared to be slightly taken aback.
'Medium height?’ hazarded Sister Jani.
'Slim build, hair braided in spiral style?'
'A rather long nose?'
'But really very ordinary to look at.'
Then Sister Elen sat up straight. ‘She was wearing a brooch in the shape of a dragonflower, though she may have put it aside now.'
'And a headband in bronze-coloured material??hough she may have taken it off,’ mused Sister Deian.
They fell into a glum silence. Sister Elen was fretting, wondering how she was going to work into the conversation her knowledge of the places that Paama had been without betraying the arcane methods by which it had been acquired. Sister Deian was brooding over their lack of proof. The brooch and the headband no longer functioned, having succumbed at last to hours of being drenched by rain and saltwater. And yet, even if he believed them, the House of the Sisters had secrets that were not to be told to lay persons.
Kwame detected the lull and tried to get them to talk again. ‘What was her occupation? Before she disappeared, that is?’ he corrected himself. Referring to a client's loved one in the past tense was never a positive approach.
'She was a marvellous cook,’ smiled Sister Jani. ‘She had skill in her hands and love in her heart, which is the way to make food fit for the angels.'
'Did she work at a restaurant? A guest lodge?'
'She was here with us, last,’ said Sister Deian sorrowfully.
'Do you know why she has disappeared?'
Again that silence fell, so odd to a stranger, so understandable to us. Kwame looked at them with greater and greater suspicion.
'Perhaps I should ask some questions down in the village,’ he suggested, raising an eyebrow.
'Oh, don't do that!’ Sister Jani cried. ‘Her own family doesn't know—they still think she's with us!'
'That's very interesting,’ said Kwame levelly. ‘Why haven't you told them?'
'We didn't want them to worry,’ said Sister Carmis, and twitched visibly at the weakness of her excuse.
'Nevertheless, if I am to find her, I need something more than what you seem prepared to tell me. It would be better if you allowed me to ask my questions. I can play a role—pretend I am simply a restaurant manager looking to recruit a cook—and they will not learn from me that she is missing. Would that satisfy you? If it does not, I tell you frankly that I will not be able to do anything for you.'
They looked at him in dismay.
'Very well,’ said Sister Jani. ‘Go and ask your questions. We will confirm your ruse if you wish. But we ask only one thing. After you have heard from the villagers, return to us. We will have more things to tell you, things that may appear strange, but are no less true for all that.'
Her colleagues gave her slightly anxious looks, but she stared directly at Kwame and pretended not to notice them.
Kwame inclined his head in thanks. ‘I shall do as you say.'
The village court of Makendha, like village courts the world over, was sometimes graced by the presence of an itinerant storyteller. Kwame found one sitting on a stool under the shade of the sandbox tree, muttering to himself. He knew the type. He found them to be excellent observers of humanity, professional harvesters of gossip and scandal.
'Excuse me,’ he said, approaching the old man, ‘but I am trying to find a cook by the name of Paama.'
The old storyteller ceased his muttering, turned his aged and weathered face to Kwame, and gave him a good look up and down.
'Now, there's an accent that has walked far,’ he said.
'I have no accent,’ Kwame replied.
'Ah, that is how I know it has travelled so far, to have wrapped itself in so many layers that to everyone, no matter what region they hail from, it appears you have no accent. So, you are looking for Paama? Why?'
Kwame had few qualms about lying for the sake of his profession, but something about the twinkle in the man's eye—little short of a leer, it was—made him embarrassed for no good reason. He scuffed his foot
