The Summoner: (30 page)

47

D
r. Fangwa snapped another command. The boy glided to the rack and selected a different jar, then handed it to Fangwa and replaced the previous one. An amber liquid swirled within, thinner than the other substance.

Grey swallowed. Sunbursts of pain from the last jar still flared up and down his arm, burst across his skin like popping blisters.

Fangwa click-clacked and opened the jar with a rapturous sigh, stirring it with another swab extracted from his robe. “This little spirit represents the purest pain you will ever feel. When you meet her you’ll beg me to return to her sister, you’ll plead to watch your skin melt from your bones rather than feel her sting.” His hand paused in midair, drops of the liquid falling off the swab. “Are you ready to discuss what Lucky has told you?”

If only Fangwa would try to move him to the table, Grey could try something—but he knew the Doctor was smart. He would incapacitate him first, in some unthinkable manner.

Grey took shallow breaths to sedate the pain. No matter what Fangwa did to him, he wouldn’t go out whimpering. He’d learn what he could, though he doubted he’d live long enough to use it. He looked Fangwa in the eye. “Lucky said the only person who will suffer more than me is Nya, and that someone has unfinished business with her.”

Fangwa’s thin lips tightened, and he began to tremble, eyes dancing with rage. “I’ll torture both their souls for this!” His hands ran over each other, fingers twitching, two spiders at play. “I must find her before he takes her.”

“Take her where? Who has her?”

Fangwa’s head snapped back towards Grey. “The
N’anga
.”

Grey forgot for the moment his pain, his imminent torture. He forgot everything save one thing.

He waged a futile war with his bonds, almost weeping with frustration. But if neither Doctor Fangwa nor Lucky were the
N’anga
, then who was he?

His attention lurched back to the Doctor, who was staring at him with sadistic glee. He called out once more to the boy. The boy came and replaced the jar, and then went to the wall with the surgical tools. He selected a long, slender knife and carried it to Fangwa.

“The topic of conversation has changed,” Fangwa said.

“If you care about Nya, let me go,” Grey said. “Tell me where the
N’anga
is, and I give you my word I’ll kill him.”

And then I’ll come back and kill you.

Fangwa’s face stretched into a sneer, and he let out a sharp giggle. “The only thing more preposterous than your release,” he rasped, “is the notion that you would kill him. He will take your mind and—”

Both Grey and Fangwa turned in shock towards the trapdoor, which had just creaked open. Light poured into the room, and then a black cloud smothered the light. The cloud swept down the stairs and stood upright, and Viktor’s presence filled the room.

A dagger with an asymmetrical, wavy blade sprung into Viktor’s hands before he reached the ground. He moved towards Fangwa without hesitation.

Fangwa eyed the shelf with the jars, but Grey could tell he wouldn’t reach it before Viktor closed on him.

Fangwa rattled off something to the boy, who moved towards the shelf faster than Grey had ever seen him move, although still with the motions of an automaton.

Fangwa held his knife delicately, more akin to a surgeon than a warrior. Viktor tyrannized his weapon. The hilt of the knife disappeared in his large hands, an extension of Viktor’s fierce will.

Grey’s eyes flicked back and forth between the boy and the two men. The boy reached for a jar and unscrewed the lid, tilting the open jar forward as if ready to toss its contents onto Viktor. Grey called out, warning him.

But the two had already engaged. Viktor swooped onto Doctor Fangwa as would a bird of prey onto a rodent, enveloping the air around them. He thrust into Fangwa’s midsection as Fangwa raised his arm to strike.

Fangwa’s thin blade clanged to the floor, and he sagged. He lowered to the ground, supported by Viktor’s hand on his back. Viktor thrust deeper into Fangwa.

Viktor pulled the curved knife out of Fangwa’s body, glistening and scarlet. Grey watched, stunned, as Fangwa crumpled to the floor.

The boy waited with an open jar in his hands, his stiffness layered with an almost human confusion. The boy made no move towards Viktor.

Fangwa lay curled in a spindly ball, wheezing and clutching the robes bunched at his midsection, crimson flowing across his fingers. Viktor watched him with a mixture of sadness and relief, of pleasure and pain. One emotion, Grey knew from experience, was missing from Viktor’s face: he didn’t have the innocent shock of one who has never taken a life, of one who has never seen the essence drain from another human being and is transformed forever, appalled at the implication of what has just been done.

Viktor addressed the boy. “Release him.”

The boy put down the jar and produced a set of keys. He walked towards Grey and unlocked his chains. The boy stood blinking, as if the astral umbilical cord to the dream world the mind clings to in the moments after awakening had yet to fully dissolve. He looked impassively at Fangwa.

Grey rubbed his wrists, unable to wrench his gaze away from the boy. “What’s wrong with him?”

“I’m unsure. The Doctor’s will is quite strong. Come, we must question him before he’s gone. I don’t think we need worry about the child.” He turned to the boy. “Is that true?”

The boy continued eying Fangwa with a blank face, and Viktor frowned.

Grey stumbled as the blood returned to his ankles and wrists. He held his left arm out to the side, like a broken wing. It had blistered from wrist to elbow, and pain still swarmed up and down it. All from two light brushes with that horrific substance. Grey shuddered.

“How badly are you injured?” Viktor asked.

“It can wait. Fangwa isn’t the
N’anga.
Neither is Lucky. The
N’anga
has Nya and I have no idea where. I’m not sure if Fangwa knows, but we need to find out.”

Grey couldn’t discern his reaction, if any, to the information. He and Viktor bent over Doctor Fangwa. He lay gasping on the floor, holding his stomach, but his eyes still shone with the fervor of belief. What secrets did this man think he knew, such that he didn’t fear the unknowable journey?

Just as Viktor opened his mouth to speak, Fangwa seized Grey’s leg. “You can’t comprehend what he’ll do to her.”

He yanked his leg from Fangwa’s grasp. “Help us find her, since you’re so worried.”

Fangwa cackled like a maddened hyena, the sounds tumbling out of his ruined body.

“Are you afraid?” Grey prodded. “Do you fear him?”

“I am past fear. If I could feel such things… then yes, it would be wise.” He licked his lips, an obscene gesture. “I am left with only desire.” He wagged a finger for Grey and Viktor to come closer. “My bedside table. A photograph.”

Grey caught his breath. “You know who he is?”

“I was sent by my government to find him.”

“To bring him back to Nigeria?”

His attempted laugh escaped as a wheeze. “To kill him.”

“Why?”

“What he seeks in Zimbabwe, someone fears above all else.”

“Someone who?”

He curled his lips in disgust, his face contorted by pain. “The prime minister of my country.”

Viktor and Grey exchanged a confused glance. Grey said, “What could the
N’anga
possibly be looking for in Zimbabwe that frightens the prime minister of Nigeria?”

Blood flecked Fangwa’s stretched lips. “His
oruko
.”

“His what?”

“His true name,” Viktor murmured.

48

G
rey had no idea what he was talking about, but Viktor’s lips pursed with understanding. He said, “I understand why your prime minister would fear this—but why does he believe his true name is to be found in Zimbabwe?”

Fangwa groaned. “Bring me a potion.”

“You’ll tell us now,” Viktor said.

Fangwa stared at Viktor with unfettered hatred. He began to babble in his native tongue, hands fluttering.

Viktor struck him across the face. “Nor shall you curse me. If you utter another word that doesn’t concern Nya or the
N’anga
, I’ll deliver your corpse to the
N’anga
myself.

Fangwa’s eyes widened. “You wouldn’t dare. I’ll-”

“You’ll do nothing
.
You’re dying.”

“Death is a hiccup. I’ll seize your spirit from the ether and drag it behind me.”

“You’ll have to escape from
Orun Apadi
first. Now talk, or I’ll end your miserable life right now.”

No, Grey thought, Viktor is most definitely not a stodgy professor.

Blood dribbled from Fangwa’s mouth, and he again clutched his stomach. Grey saw the clammy pallor of Fangwa’s face, and knew he didn’t have long.

“He needs something,” Grey said. “He’s not going to last.”

Viktor reached inside his coat and pulled out a small flask. “Drink this,” he said, without a trace of compassion.

Fangwa allowed Viktor to pour some of the liquid down his throat, and Grey caught the familiar green tinge of Viktor’s muse. Fangwa drank until his eyes took on a satisfied glaze. Grey feared he’d go to sleep and never wake up. He thought of Nya and willed Fangwa to stay alive and reveal what he knew.

“I’ll tell you a story. A story for my Nya.” He said to Grey, “If you reach her before the
N’anga
has finished with her, I won’t pursue your spirit.” His head lolled towards Viktor. “To you I make no such promise.”

Viktor didn’t respond or change his expression, but Grey saw him swallow ever so slightly.

“There is a village Igjabo in northern Yorubaland, a village with a tradition of Juju. It was once home to a powerful babalawo—some said the most powerful in Yorubaland. In this village were three boys, each with much promise. Two were taken by the babalawo for their potential in Juju. The third and eldest was groomed for his skill in leadership—this one was destined for secular power. With the aid of the babalawo’s reputation, the eldest became prime minister of Nigeria. He remains so today.”

“Isn’t it unthinkable that a babalawo would reveal anyone’s true name?” Viktor said. “I thought this was taboo among the Yoruba. Even among the dark sorcerers.”

“It is as you say, even among us. Strictly forbidden.”

“Is this babalawo the
N’anga
?” Viktor asked, then said, “But how old…”

Fangwa arced in a soundless spasm of pain, then continued speaking in fitful starts and gasps. “I spoke of two boys strong in Juju—one wise, more fit to be babalawo, a born shepherd of his spiritual flock. The other was the babalawo’s son, and Juju sang within him—he was the most gifted boy the babalawo had ever seen. But something was missing in the song. The son’s heart was wrong from the beginning, and the babalawo knew.”

“Was this you?” Grey asked.

Fangwa coughed, and Grey threw a worried look at Viktor. Viktor poured more absinthe down Fangwa’s throat, and then onto the wound. Fangwa screamed, then the glazed look returned to his eyes.

“Mine was a different path.” Grey thought he detected a wistful flutter of regret. It must have been the wormwood, he thought coldly. “The babalawo’s son grew powerful, and more consumed by Juju. He found the dark places, realms where none should venture. His father tried to intervene, but the son fled the village.

“The babalawo grew old, and gathered his
Awon
Iwe
-
his books of Juju and names. The eldest boy was already a politician, and the babalawo feared what his son would do. He sent the
Awon Iwe
away with the third and youngest boy, the babalawo in training. The boy disappeared. He was never seen again in Nigeria.”

“The dark one—the son—is the
N’anga
,” Viktor said.

“Yes.”

“Where’d he go?”

“That is a mystery. He did return to Nigeria once,” Fangwa said, his hands twitching feebly. “Three years ago. He returned to kill his father and terrorize his village.”

“Jesus,” Grey said.

“He didn’t find what he’d come for—his father’s
Awon
Iwe
. By this time the eldest was prime minister. It’s believed the
N’anga
has spent the last three years seeking the prime minister’s name, hidden with the youngest boy—now a man of late middle age.”

“One of the boys became the prime minister of Nigeria,” Grey said, “the other the
N’anga
—what happened to the youngest boy, the one the babalawo sent away?” Grey’s mind delineated the facts that he knew, and the story Nya had told him. He blanched as Fangwa watched him.

Fangwa grinned. “We know what happened to this boy, do we not?”

“Nya’s father,” Grey whispered.

Fangwa cackled with delight, then convulsed in pain. Grey put a hand on his chest, easing him down.

“The
N’anga’s
cult is a pretense,” Viktor said. “He discovered where his childhood rival fled, and thinks he has the
Awon
Iwe
.”

“Had,” Grey said. “Nya’s father was murdered eight months ago. The same time the
N’anga
came to Zimbabwe.”

“He didn’t find it when he murdered Jeremiah,” Fangwa said, “or he would have returned to Nigeria. And you are wrong. He enjoys his flock.”

“That’s why you wanted Nya,” Grey said. “To use her to help you find the books, as leverage against the
N’anga
.”

“That is one of the reasons.”

Click-clack
.

“Why not just kidnap her?” Grey asked.

“This is not my country. There are… other ways.”

Viktor pressed him. “Why didn’t he approach Nya earlier?”

“Perhaps he didn’t believe she knew her father’s secrets. Perhaps her father misled him.” A fit of blood-flecked coughing overtook Fangwa again, and his body curled into a spindly ball.

Grey’s stomach bottomed out every time Fangwa stopped speaking. Viktor gave him half of the trickle that was left. Grey knew they had minutes, at best.