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tapped a rhythm in the dust. Nshalla wondered if that was an unconscious act, or whether she was communicating to him in some arcane language.
    The pygmy set an enamelled tin bowl on the floor, took one of the cockerels, and slit its throat. Blood spattered the enamel. He bundled the dying bird into a sack, lit a candle, then bowed low over the plate, as if to sniff the blood.
    A minute later he sat upright, grinning. "Logged on, little subsystem, transfering data at ninety megabytes per sec! Ah… there are omens here. West is the direction of your subconscious. West." He stared at Nshalla. "You have come from the south, pale, pale negro, and there is dust on your feet and in your remarkably uncurly hair."
    Insulted, Nshalla replied, "My father was Irish."
    "Blood is blood is blood."
    "I'm the daughter of an empress."
    The pygmy ignored her. "The journey will be long, and yet short. Much can be achieved in a matter of days. Two will go and three will return. I have seen it. Upload time over, logged off!"
    Disgusted, Nshalla departed the tent, followed by Gmoulaye. In the passage they argued.
    "He was a charlatan," Nshalla said.
    "All diviners connect with the spirit world," Gmoulaye replied, in what Nshalla knew was a put-on sensible voice. "We must expect a certain amount of lunacy and listen to the words. "
    "I do know a little about diviners. Aren't they supposed to speak in tongues? Where was his interpreter? All diviners are supposed to have interpreters. He spoke in New-Oriental!"
    Gmoulaye looked angered. "Did you see nothing of him, his shades, his phones, the microphone? The man himself was the interpreter. We have just spoken with an entity of the aether, Nshalla, a real spirit of the optical network." She uttered a scornful laugh. "You city women know nothing."
    Nshalla tried to control her anger, but it made her voice low and grim. "Let me tell you something. I'm going to Timbuktu, to the Library of West Aphrica. If you're my friend you'll come with me, if you're not you'll go back to Accra." She turned on her heel and ran back to the street.
    "I'm going south!" Gmoulaye shouted after her.
    Back at the inn, Nshalla ran into her room to weep. When the outburst was over she walked down to the common room where, amongst his guests, she found Lechat Ndoye, the innkeeper. He consoled her with a free mug of cocoa.
    "There, there, my lady. We all have our disagreements. You have been friends for many years with the villager, and that means it will last into the future."
    Nshalla sighed. "It's over."
    "Odomankoma, the Wise One, would surely not allow it."
    "She'll never come north with me. I've got to go to Timbuktu."
    He stared. "Timbuktu? But isn't that, well, it's a long way away. Surely…"
    "I have to," Nshalla said. "You don't understand."
    A rustle behind them spoke of a presence. Nshalla turned to see a small man, dressed cheaply but tidily in a brown cloak and breeches, with acne scarred skin and crooked yellow teeth. "Gracious lady, I could not help but overhear your heart rending conversation. But your little difficulty could be solved. I am a professional guide. It is my duty and my pleasure to assist those few travellers remaining in our lands into other climes. No, I have never been to Timbuktu, but I have been to Ouagadougou, a town not far from Timbuktu. Take me on! You will not regret it."
    The man's patter was persuasive. His manner lay just on the good side of unctuous. Nshalla looked him up and down, then said, "What would you take for a fee?"
    "It would be a horrendous dishonour to discuss fees," he replied, "when we have only just met." He bowed, grinning, then offered her his hand. "I am Z'agoubya Nsangue, and I cannot express my pleasure at meeting you."
    Taken aback, Nshalla pumped his hand. "I'm Nshalla."
    "Trekking from—"
    "We need not go into that."
    He bowed again. "The phrase will never again pass my lips."
    Nshalla turned to Lechat. "D'you know this man?"
    "I never set eyes on him until he