Antsy jerked awake to surf rustling over smoothed shingle, the cawing of seabirds, and a poke in the ribs. He lay among tall rocks just up from the shore of the Rivan Sea. Two kids, a boy and a girl, peered down at him. The boy held a stick.
‘See,’ the boy announced, triumphant, ‘he
‘G’away,’ Antsy croaked, and he coughed up a mouthful of phlegm and spat aside. His clothes stuck to him, chilled and wet with dew, and he shuddered.
‘You want food? I got fish — one crescent each!’
He probed the crusted bloodied cloth he’d pressed to the side of his neck. That had been one damned thin and sharp blade. He wondered whether he’d ever see the young nobleman again. He certainly owed him one.
‘Where you from? Darujhistan? You heading out to the Spawns?’
‘Why’s your hair red?’ the girl asked.
‘’Cause I’m half demon.’
That quietened them. He decided to try to stand. First he leaned on the knuckles of one hand. Then he got to his knees. Next, he brought up a foot and pushed up to lever himself erect. His ankles, fingers and wrists all burned with the morning joint-fire.
The girl said in a sing-song voice: ‘If you’re heading out you’re gonna be too late.’
He was scratching the bristles of his chin. ‘What?’
‘They’re already linin’ up.’
‘
The kids trailed him. ‘I have vinegared water too. You sure you don’t want any fish?’
A crowd had gathered on the far end of the curving strand. Launches rested there, pulled up from the surf. He angled that way while chewing on a slice of smoked meat taken from one pannier bag.
‘I got a map of the Spawns too,’ the lad said, jumping up in front of him.
Antsy eyed the boy in complete disbelief. ‘Thanks, kid, but I can’t read.’
The boy shrugged. ‘That’s okay. The map’s still good.’
Antsy barked a laugh. Had he any coin to spare he might’ve purchased the rag as reward for the lad’s salesmanship.
Confederation soldiers guarded the boats. A table stood aslant on the gravel beach. The crowd consisted of men and women apparently waiting their turn to pay the transport fee. Most, Antsy figured, couldn’t and were just hanging around. He decided to join the spectators for a while to get a feel for how things worked.
Here, a simple picket of soldiers was barrier enough to keep everyone back. An armed man, he reflected, might be able to fight his way to the boats, but then what? It took at least ten people to handle such huge launches. An armed party then. Ten to twenty to take the boat and oar it out through the surf. But again, then what? Free Cities Confederation ships waited beyond the bay. Your own ship then. But that had been tried. Four private armies had apparently made the attempt — and failed. Only a Malazan warship had forced its way through, and none had seen it since.
A party of five pushed through the crowd of onlookers. They were well accoutred in cloth-wrapped helmets, banded iron armour. They carried longswords, crossbows, and large bags and satchels presumably containing supplies. Four carried large round shields, their fronts covered in canvas slips. The leader wore a long grey tabard over his mail coat. He had a commanding presence, with a great beak of a nose, broken, and a mane of wild blond hair that whipped in the wind.
‘You’re going?’ someone said to Antsy.
He looked over, then up. A dark-skinned young woman stood at his side, slim, and a good two hands taller than he. She wore a dirty cloak over layered shirts and skirting that might have once been fashionable but were now shredded and grimed. Her thick black hair hung in kinked curls, unwashed and matted. Her dark eyes were bruised from hunger and lack of sleep.
‘What’s the price?’ he asked. The girl stiffened and her dark eyes flashed in shocked anger until Antsy raised his chin to indicate the table and the fee-collector.
She relaxed, almost blushing. ‘Oh. I thought … never mind. About fifty gold councils a head.’
Antsy gaped. ‘That’s … that’s pure theft! How can they ask that much?’
She indicated the party. ‘Because they get it.’
A price appeared to have been agreed as the fee-collector gestured to the guards. The party of five was allowed to pass.
‘Mercenaries from the southern archipelago,’ the girl sneered.
‘You’re from Darujhistan?’
The sneer disappeared and she hunched self-consciously. ‘No. The north.’
Her manner struck him as very young and very sheltered. A rich kid out of her element. ‘And you don’t have the price …’
She gave a wry grin. ‘You’ve wangled the truth out of me.’
‘You came down on your own?’
‘Yes.’
‘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
He stood rubbing his wrist: damn, but the tall gal had a strong grip. How old
‘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.
