‘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.
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.
‘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.
From his panniers, waist and leggings, he drew together the components of his Malazan-issued heavy crossbow. Since he’d spent years field-stripping and reassembling the weapon, he did not have to look at his hands while crouched behind cover, keeping watch. Orchid remained quiet and didn’t move and because of this he felt better about possibly taking her with him — should he ever manage to get out.
The man came into view at the base of the heaped logs. He paused as if sensing something. Antsy grinned: a canny devil. He shouted down, ‘What do you want?’
The fellow appeared to be considering the climb.
‘Don’t move! We can have us a little chat just like this.’
‘Talk is what I wish.’ The voice was soft and low yet carried easily over the distance. The tone bothered Antsy: much too assured given the situation. He stood up, the crossbow levelled.
‘All right. Talk.’
The man peered up, his hood shadowing his face. ‘That object you showed the fee-collector. I’d like to examine it. I may want to purchase it.’
‘Not for sale.’
‘How about fifty Darujhistani gold councils?’
Antsy raised his gaze from sighting down the stock, considered. ‘I don’t trade with someone who hides his face.’
‘Sorry,’ the man answered, amused. ‘Force of habit.’ He threw back his hood. His face was scrawny and thin, like a cat’s. A small trimmed beard sat on his chin like a smudge of dirt and his black hair hung in thick oiled curls.
Gloved hands out from his sides, the man backed away. Closer, Antsy was struck by the fellow’s wiry leanness, his knife-like slash of a mouth. A cruel mouth, he decided. And small eyes that seemed to glitter like polished obsidian stones.
The fellow pointed to the crossbow. ‘No need for that.’
‘That’s my call and I’ve decided to keep it.’ Raising his voice, he shouted, ‘Orchid! Bring down my bags. Bring
