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arrived this morning."
    Nshalla considered the situation. She felt insecure. The majority of people living in Ashanti would have appearances altered by the aether. How could she tell if this man was fake or genuine? Well, there were certain tests that could be performed with sensing transputers, but even an ordinary person could fool such a machine. The only reliable test was to consult an intelligent animal, such as a chimp, divorced from the sensory complications of the aether. Nshalla possessed no such beast.
    And care was required when dealing with charismatic or persuasive individuals. Deep down, Z'agoubya's psychology was altering the image he wished to present to the world, implying his oiliness was a symptom of insincerity—or, worse, he was an illusionist able to transform his appearance by force of will, externally malleable because of a fractured personal identity.
    Nshalla sighed. Evening was close, and she felt tired. "I'll take you on," she said. "Meet me at the north gate tomorrow morning."
    She turned and made for her bed. On Gmoulaye's pillow she left a note saying what her intentions were but offering no thoughts on the advisability of Gmoulaye following. She signed it with the pictsym for Empress-Daughter, but then, realising what she had done, crossed it out and made the symbol for friend.
    She slept.
    She woke.
    The room was dark. Outside, distant drums passed messages, while donkeys tied in the street groaned and rooftop monkeys chittered. Gmoulaye lay asleep in her bed. Nshalla crept to the window and saw that dawn was near. Downstairs, she waited for the innkeeper to appear. As the sun rose, he did, dressed in a satin gown that revealed his muscled torso.
    "I'm leaving after breakfast," Nshalla said.
    "Very well, my lady." From the pouch he took a number of cowries, before tossing it over. Nshalla secreted it in her backpack.
    The innkeeper clicked his fingers at his daughter. "Breakfast now."
    Nshalla was served with fried egg chopped up with tomatoes and garlic, toast, and freshly squeezed orange juice. A plate of mangoes was laid at her table, but she waved them away.
    Gmoulaye did not appear.
    Nshalla departed the inn, wishing good health and a surfeit of obedient children upon her host, then began the walk through the city to the north gate. Bustling bodies surrounded her. The market was beginning its day, and shrouded women were haggling for fowl, paw-paws, and giant mangoes. Nearby a neon sign flickered: Drink Virgo le Cola!
    She felt a little dazed. Though handy with weapons, she was taking a risk, going out into unknown bush with a man she knew nothing of. But it had to be done. The extremity of her position had hardened her resolve, and made her realise just what an extraordinary thing Mnada had done. She was the rightful heir to Ghana. How could she have thrown all that away? And why?
    At the north gate a small figure awaited, flanked by two dozy spearmen. It was Z'agoubya.
    "Gracious lady—"
    "My name's Nshalla. Let's have none of this gracious nonsense."
    "As you wish. My apologies."
    She looked him up and down, trying to see if his appearance had changed. It had not, though he was prepared for travel, carrying twin packs on his back, weapons at his belt, transputers in his pockets. Wooden beads dangled on optical cables looped around his neck. Again she studied him, remembering the vendor and the static-box. His nails were broken, but clean. No. Not enough clues to make an accusation.
    "So," she said. "You want to guide me to Ouagadougou."
    "To Timbuktu," he corrected. "During the night I downloaded information from a resource. I have old maps that will lead us to Timbuktu." He patted a transputer and grinned.
    "Show me the maps."
    He called up a selection of screens. Nshalla recognised the colouring and the format.
    "And your fee?" she asked.
    He glanced away. "You try to shame me, and I do not deserve it. We must not be mercenary so early in our relationship."
    Nshalla detected a trap.