‘To find your fortune?’
She hesitated. ‘Sort of. You see, I’m a student of ancient languages. I speak Tiste Andii. And I read the script.’
‘Bullshit,’ was Antsy’s gut reaction.
The girl grimaced and tucked long strands of the greasy hair behind an ear. ‘That’s what everyone says.’
The mix of naivete and worldly adolescent disgust touched something in him. He wondered how on earth she’d lasted this long among such a lawless bunch. ‘Listen. What’s your name?’
‘Orchid.’
‘Orchid? That’s your name?’
Another grimace. ‘Yeah. Not my idea. Yours?’
‘Red.’
‘Must be a common name where you’re from.’
Antsy just grunted, chewed on the end of his moustache. The man behind the table shouted, ‘Anyone else? Anyone else for today’s party?’
No one answered. It occurred to Antsy that the girl might have just made a joke. Gathered at one launch, the day’s complement of treasure-seekers consisted of the party of five plus four other individuals. The Confederation soldiers began packing up.
‘Another day’s waiting,’ Orchid sighed.
‘I’m gonna have a chat with that fellow taking the coin.’
Orchid’s hand closed on his wrist. ‘Take me with you, please. If you go.’
He gently twisted his arm to free it. He failed. ‘I don’t know.’ He stared at her hand. She followed his gaze and pulled her hand away.
‘I’m sorry. It’s just that I have to go. I don’t know why. I just know.’
He stood rubbing his wrist: damn, but the tall gal had a strong grip. How old was he getting? ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Thank you.’
The pickets let him through. The two guards at the table merely cradled their crossbows and watched while he stood waiting for the clerk to deign to notice him. Eventually, the man looked up.
‘Yes?’
‘The price per head is about fifty gold Darujhistani councils?’
The man sighed, started packing his scales and record books. ‘Yes. And?’
‘What would you give me for this?’
The man didn’t stop packing while Antsy placed a leather-wrapped object on the table. It was about the size and shape of a flattened melon. The man gave another vexed sigh. ‘No bartering. No trades. I’m not a merchant. I don’t want your silverware or your chickens.’
Antsy ignored him. He pulled back a portion of the quilted padding and the man couldn’t help but look. He paled, jerked away, then covered his reaction by closing an iron-bound chest behind the table.
‘How do I know whether that’s real?’ he asked after a time.
‘You saw the seal,’ Antsy growled.
Disassembling the scales the man said, ‘Yes … but seals can be counterfeited. Replicas can be made. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s real enough to pulverize everyone on this Hood-damned beach.’
His back to Antsy, the man paused in his packing. ‘That may be so. But then you wouldn’t get out to the Spawns, would you?’ And he turned to study him over his shoulder with a cool stare.
Antsy decided that maybe there were good reasons why these Free Cities Confederation boys had managed to keep hold of the isles. He gave a sigh of his own and eased the object back into the pannier.
‘I suggest,’ said the man, ‘that you sell that to Rhenet Henel.’
‘Who’s this Rhenet?’
‘Why, the governor of Hurly and all the Spawns, of course.’
Antsy just rolled his eyes.
Orchid caught up with him at the cart track. ‘Turned you down, hey?’
‘Yeah. He didn’t like the look of my chickens.’
She frowned, prettily, he thought, then let the comment pass. ‘So, where to now?’
He stopped, faced her. ‘Listen, kid. I can’t get you out to the Spawns. I can’t even get myself out. There’s nothing I can do for you.’
She bit at her lip. ‘Well, maybe there’s something I can do for you?’
He had to take a long breath to safely navigate that minefield. Gods, girl! How naive can anyone be? He cleared his throat. ‘Yeah. I suppose there is. You wouldn’t know where I could get a decent meal round here, would you?’
She took him a few leagues down the shore to what appeared to be nothing more than a camp of refugees squatting among the driftwood of dying overturned trees. ‘Welcome to New Hurly,’ she said, waving an arm to encompass the ramshackle huts and tents.
‘New Hurly? What’s wrong with the old one?’
‘This is the real Hurly,’ she explained, waving to kids and oldsters nearby. She was obviously well known here. Antsy spotted his two would-be guides among a horde of running children. ‘This is what’s left of the original inhabitants.’
‘Here? Why not in town?’
‘Driven out by those vulture hustler scum.’ She sat on a driftwood log before the smouldering remains of a cook-fire and invited him to join her. ‘They have no money so they’d just get in the way, right?’ Her tone was scathing.
He grunted his understanding. He’d seen it before: these natural disasters were not so different from war. An old woman ducked out of a nearby wattle-and-daub hut and Orchid signed to her. She grinned toothlessly and returned to the hut. A moment later she emerged carrying two wooden bowls which she filled from a cauldron hanging over the fire. It was some kind of fish stew. He blew on it.
While they ate the old woman squatted before them, grinning and nodding. He studied the girl. Skin the hue of polished ironwood, slim, hands unblemished and smooth. Educated. A pampered upbringing in some large urban centre. Tutors, fine clothes. All this spoke of a great deal of money yet here she was sitting on a log pushing boiled fish into her mouth with her fingers.
‘Good, yes? Good?’ the old woman urged.
‘Yeah, sure,’ he said, uncomfortable under her manic stare. ‘Good. Thanks.’
She grinned lopsidedly then took the bowls and returned to the hut.
Orchid watched her go, her gaze sad. ‘Lost her husband, three married children and eight grandchildren in the flood. Never recovered.’
Antsy grunted again, this time in sympathy. He’d seen a lot of that too. He cleared his throat. ‘So, what do I owe …’
‘Nothing. You owe nothing. I healed one of her last remaining grandchildren. Had an infection and fever.’
‘You’re a healer?’ That put a whole new perspective on things.
She shrugged. ‘A little training and reading. All mundane. I just kept the wound drained, threw together a poultice of some herbs and moss and such.’
He eyed her anew. All this made her a great deal more valuable. Why hadn’t she marketed her skills? Hood, they could use her in Hurly. Then he realized: she chose not to offer her services there.
The old woman ducked out of the hut carrying a small water bucket. She offered Orchid a dipper and the girl drank. Antsy had a mouthful as well — it was clean, mostly. ‘Orchid,’ he began, awkwardly, ‘you’ve hitched yourself to a broken cart. I’m going nowhere fast right now.’
‘You’ll get out there.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I have an intuition,’ she said, completely without any hint of embarrassment or reserve. ‘A feeling. I know you will go.’
He just raised a brow. Crazies. Why do I always get the crazy ones?
‘So,’ she said, breaking the silence. ‘What’s your next move?’
He studied the blasted tumbled landscape. ‘Where can I find the governor of this fair land?’
The governor, it happened, occupied a fort under construction up the shore in the opposite direction. Fort Hurly. Walking to it they crossed an eerie post-flood landscape of dead uprooted trees flattened like grass where stiff seaweed hung from the bare limbs. Skeletal carcasses wrapped in dried flesh lay tangled in the wreckage. Flies were a torment. They quickly became muddied up to their thighs. Orchid’s layered skirts hung like wet sails.
Antsy knew they had been followed since leaving Hurly. The fellow wore a dirty brown cloak and made no secret of tagging along at a discreet distance. Antsy had the troubling sensation of being dispassionately studied. Finally, as they clambered over an enormous pile of fallen tree trunks, he decided he’d had enough of the game. He pushed Orchid down behind cover at the natural fortress’s peak, whispered, ‘Quiet,’ and moved off.