I squeezed through a gap in two boulders. The narrow band of sand that clung to the base of the cliffs was silvery in the moonlight, rippled as oft-worn fabric. Beyond it, below the strip of lead-grey gravel that made the greater part of the beach, the sea frothed and seethed like an old man sucking at his teeth.
I’d overestimated the good my cloak would do me. Beneath the moon’s hoary glow, I stood out just as clearly as I would have clothed in the brightest motley. I considered scurrying back to the defence of the rocks, but what betrayed me was also in my favour, for I could see clear to the landed boat and its entourage of soldiers, and I could make out one of Navare’s men moving between them and me. Out there, at least I’d have plenty of warning of an attack — and I could think, without the stink of twenty waterlogged sailors in my nostrils.
Or so I’d imagined, anyway. By the time I’d reached the waterline, I was beginning to realise that whatever thoughts my exhausted mind might offer, they weren’t the useful, escape-enabling sort I’d been hoping for. It seemed the ocean depths had pummelled all the fight out of me, and I found it hard even to remember why I’d been so angry at Estrada. The truth was that I was at a loss. I’d failed at thievery, failed at heroism, and now here I was in the arse end of nowhere, staring death in the face once again and lacking the energy to much care. If there were any fairness in the world I’d be in a tavern at that moment, narrating my legendary adventures in exchange for cups of wine, and thinking fondly of the part I’d played in returning Saltlick and his people home.
A nice dream. But it had burned to nothing the moment Alvantes and Estrada had made their truce with that villain Mounteban, and now all I could do was wander down this beach grey as ashes, remembering it fondly.
I shook myself. No use in getting maudlin. I’d survived this far, and through worse than this. Maybe I’d never be regaled for my heroism, maybe the King would put Altapasaeda to fire and the sword, maybe Saltlick would never see his distant home again, but there would always be taverns — and surely that was enough to keep me going for one more night at least?
It was hard to see much past the turns of the cliff that closed either end of the beach, but I didn’t think I’d be swimming out. It crossed my mind that there must be timbers from our boat around, that perhaps I could turn one into a crude raft. A ludicrous plan; the water would be freezing by now, and there was no reason to imagine I’d fare better on the rocks for a second attempt. I turned around, stared back towards our rocky barbican. More realistically, once I’d recovered a little I might be able to climb that ravine in the cliff side. Yet the best I could hope for would be to snatch a few uncomfortable hours rest and make a try before dawn, and I doubted I’d get halfway like that. No, it would take more strength than I had to make that tricky ascent in the dark.
I could see no option except to attempt the fool’s errand I’d come out there on. I might as well make a try of it before I returned empty handed. To my astonishment, however, less than a minute had passed before my eye snagged on something that looked like bleached bone and turned out to be ancient wood, desiccated and salt-stained. After that, I began to hunt seriously, drawn by the prospect of a little warmth — and sure enough, Navare had been right. Some of my tiredness turned to enthusiasm as I chanced on more chunks of weatherworn timber, and for a while the quest fully absorbed me.
My excitement waned quickly. Aside from the first piece I’d discovered, nothing I found was much more than a sliver; we’d have a scanty fire indeed if the others hadn’t fared better. Still, at least I’d shown willing. I was beginning to regret the previous day’s outburst at Estrada, and maybe my small haul would offer a means back into her good graces.
Then, as I turned back, something else caught my eye. It was difficult to make sense of at first; a pattern upon the rocks nearest the shore, a curious checked design drawn over the weed-decked stone. Finally, after a few moments of staring, I understood what I was looking at: a net, snagged on one of the higher protrusions and draping down, most of its length beneath the water. It could only have come from our boat; probably it was the same we’d used to haul in Saltlick at the dock.
I continued to watch the net for a minute longer, as new thoughts turned over in my mind: memories, and the first spark of an idea. Maybe there was a way off this miserable shore after all, but I couldn’t begin to guess how I’d make it work.
I’d sleep on it, I decided, and assuming I was still alive, perhaps the morning would offer some insight. I headed back to the boulder wall and was a little pleased by how warmly everyone greeted me — until I realised it wasn’t me they were glad to see but the burden I carried.
Paltry as my stock of firewood was, I’d done better than Navare’s guardsmen. As it turned out, though, even a pitiful fire was better than nothing in such cramped surrounds. With twenty men, one woman and a giant crammed into a space the size of the average peasant cottage, it didn’t take long for the chill to evaporate. Propped with a boulder at my back, I could hardly claim to be comfortable, but with the fire’s brisk heat on my face and a vast weight of fatigue closing over me, I was at least relaxed, and blissfully near to sleep.
Still, I wasn’t as irritated as I might have been when Estrada came to sit beside me. “Will you talk to me, Damasco?” she asked.
“I’ll talk. I can’t guarantee I’ll listen,” I told her. But, whether from tiredness or because it was hard to stay angry when we’d likely soon both be dead, there wasn’t much bite in the words.
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Estrada said. “All I wanted to say was, I’ve been thinking about what you said before, on the boat. And maybe, in a way, you’re right. I could have done things differently.”
“You mean, better?”
“I mean differently. I mean, it’s easy to look back at your actions and realise they didn’t work out the way you’d hoped.” Estrada propped a hand against dark hair still slick with brine and gazed into the fire. “Alvantes told me what you did when you were travelling with him… using the money you’d stolen to help the giants and the villagers on the Hunch.”
“And what a waste that turned out to be,” I said.
“But you tried. He would never tell you, but I think he respected you for it. And so do I… I respect that you tried. Here’s the thing, though, Damasco: doing the right thing isn’t about gestures. It’s about working out, as well as you can, what people need to make their lives better and then trying as hard as you can to give it to them. A few coins can’t do it. Fighting wars can’t either. And you don’t always get to win.”
“Then what’s the point?” I said. “If trying to do good is just as likely to cause harm, why not just leave well alone?”
She shook her head. “I wonder myself sometimes. Of course I do, damn it! Did you think it hadn’t crossed my mind that some of this might be my fault? I did what I thought I had to… what I thought someone needed to do to set things right. And looking back, I can see that maybe all I did was make them worse. Maybe that’s what I did. I don’t know.”
I could tell this wasn’t how she’d intended the conversation to go; there was a note of pained emotion welling in her voice. Flailing for some reassurance to offer and finding nothing I said, “Things don’t always work out how you expect them to.”
Estrada offered me a wan smile. “No. They don’t. Goodnight, Damasco.”
Watching her go, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d accidentally told Estrada just what she needed to hear. Perhaps, at least, I’d die with one less enemy to my name — and I was a little glad for that.