The Outlaw by Stephen Davies Page B

smelled of tea leaves, mint, and roasted meat. The floor was covered with clean white sand, and a dozen straw mats were arranged in a semicircle. Paaté led Jake and Kas to an unoccupied mat. They kicked off their flip-flops and sat down. After that agonizing journey on horseback it still hurt to sit.
    The marquee was filling up with hungry boys. There were a few girls, too, including Mariama. Only one person in the marquee was above the age of twenty—a plump thirty-something man with a short, pointed beard and two braided locks of hair hanging one on either side of his face. He was reclining on one elbow, eating dates from a silver dish and spitting out the stones.
    Most of the boys wore three-quarter-length cotton robes like Jake's, and they were talking excitedly among themselves, occasionally glancing across at the strange, sunburned visitors.
    "Why is everyone talking French?" asked Jake.
    Paaté shrugged. "The boys and girls here are from loads of different tribes, so French is the only language we all have in common."
    Kas was scanning the rows of faces. "Where are Farm Eye and the others?" she asked. "I don't see them."
    "Who?" asked Paaté.
    "The boys who rescued us this morning."
    "They left while you were sleeping. They live in Burizanga, between Djibo and Kongoussi. We work together on jobs sometimes."
    "What kinds of jobs?"
    Paaté ignored the question, and Kas did not press him further.
    A little boy came around with a plastic bucket for hand washing, and two older boys followed behind, serving the food. Jake had expected another dose of
nyiiri,
but the crusty gray paste was nowhere to be seen. Instead, there was mint tea, soft black dates, succulent lamb roasted on the bone, bowls of cayenne pepper, and mountains of sticky white rice drenched in peanut sauce. The food could not have been more different from the prissy gourmet food of last night's gold banquet. Here the diners were holding their meat in their hands and tearing it with their teeth.
    "Is the Chameleon here?" asked Kas, pulling a chunk of meat off a bone and dipping it in cayenne pepper.
    "Be patient," said Paaté. "The Chameleon will be here presently." He snapped a bone between his fingers and sucked out the marrow.
    Over the hubbub, a deep and resonant voice rang out. "
Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!
" A disembodied head appeared at the front of the banqueting hall.
    It was a young, dark face with a sardonic smile, and it floated in thin air about three feet above the ground. The unblinking eyes gazed around the hall, fixing the diners with an otherworldly stare. Kas gasped and clutched Jake's hand.
    "Don't stress, Kas," whispered Jake. "It's some sort of trick—it has to be."
    "It's the Chameleon," murmured Paaté. "He has arrived."
    The head without a body turned from side to side. Then the mouth opened and began to speak. "
Salaam aleykum!
" said the Chameleon. "
Bonsoir à tout le monde.
"
    A few uncertain titters of laughter rippled around the hall. "
Aleykum asalaam!
"cried some.
    Mirrors,
thought Jake.
It has to be.
But there was no denying that the trick was well done and that the young illusionist had made an unforgettable entrance. Jake was impressed and at the same time a little afraid.
    "I see our guest of honor is here," continued the French-speaking head, grinning at the bearded man who occupied the seat of honor. "Sheikh Ahmed, are you enjoying tonight's feast?"
    The sheikh scowled and shook his head. "Who taught you my trick, you fiend?"
    "The one who taught me is called Moussa," said the Chameleon. "I believe he used to be your disciple, Sheikh Ahmed."
    As he spoke, a second disembodied head appeared beside his own.
    The sheikh jumped to his feet, his cheeks and stomach quivering. "Moussa!" he cried, pointing an accusing finger at the second head. "How dare you disobey me! I told you to go to Senegal with my sheep and goats—"
    "
Your
sheep and goats?" interrupted the Chameleon. "I thought they were for