Whether that raised the clerk’s estimate of the Fudir or lowered it of Hugh was a fine point. After they had exited the Hostel, the Fudir said, “You big man, first chop. Make poor chumar-man pukka.” Hugh turned a puzzled eye on him, and the Terran switched to Gaelactic. “I don’t need your endorsement to be a man.”
“Should I apologize, then?”
The Fudir’s jaw clenched. “No,” he said. “But it grates. Let’s go. Chel-chel.”
They parted company at Greaseline Street. The Fudir crossed the street and slipped into the Corner, while Hugh continued toward Greengrow, where he made the rounds of the portside outfitters. He noted the goods available against his list, and jotted down the nominal prices and the sources. At Shem Kobaurick and Son, Armorers, he found a display of crescent-shaped ceramic knives with micron edges, imported all the way from Raven Rock, and he paid three-quarters the asking price for it. It was more than he ought to have paid—as a onetime economics minister, he had some grasp of markups—but he was content. It was not the dukāndar’s tale of his crippled daughter that swayed him, but that he wanted the knife and wanted it badly, and the merchant knew this the way he knew his own heartbeat. Kobaurick threw in a scabbard for the knife that fit snugly under the armpit. A hideaway sica would not make one spit of difference if it came to the touch in the Hadramoo, but he felt infinitesimally more confident knowing that he had it.
The Fudir met him by Undercook’s Emporium, looking somewhat the worse for having passed through the Corner. He explained the cut on the cheek as a difference of opinion regarding the possession of certain shekels entrusted to him by the Seven. The jingle of coins in a purse can be heard at greater distances and by keener ears than physics and biology presume, and while the Memsahb had sent Bikram and Sandeep to escort the money, the scuffle had been a near-run thing. “But that dacoit-chief,” the Fudir said, “he got his feet all tangled up in a bhangī-man’s broom handle.” He laughed. “Oh, that was a pinwheel! The boys and I stripped him naked and split his purse three ways to teach him how fleeting are the wages of theft. And I shoved—Let’s say I left him the broom handle so he’d watch his step more carefully in the future.” He clapped O’Carroll on the shoulder. “Chop and chel, boy! Let’s fetch those supplies. I love it when me spend other man his money—and the Kennel, he have deep pockets.”
Afterward, Hugh and the Fudir repaired to the Bar to wait for the Pup. Praisegod, cleaning glasses and trying in a desultory manner to proselytize an Alabastrine woman standing at the rail, saw them enter and his eyebrows rose incrementally. “So,” he said when the Fudir had ordered two long ales, “the sinful universe wouldn’t have you?”
“I’ve been sent back here to do my penance,” the Fudir admitted. “But don’t worry. I’ll be going to hell shortly.”
“A journey so long in progress deserves at last to find its end,” Praisegod allowed. “How did you find New Eireann?”
“Same as always. One week down the Grand Trunk Road, just past Gessler’s Sun.” But then, on second thought, he dropped the banter and told the Bartender how things stood on that unhappy planet.
The Bartender grew solemn at the news. “May God turn His merciful face toward them.”
“Better his face,” said the Fudir, “than what he’s been showing them lately.”
“I’ll hear no blasphemy, friend. I’ll beg alms in my Brotherhouse and urge other houses and the Sisterhood to do the same. Thus shall the glory of God shine forth from our hearts and become a beacon to others.”
The Fudir turned away, but Hugh laid a plastic slip on the bar. “Here’s my personal chit. Throw it in the pot with the rest. They need building materials and tools, not food. Craftsmen, they have, but willing hands will not be turned away. Clothing, too. Don’t send money. Without goods to chase, the money inflates.”
The Bartender did not look at the amount before the chit disappeared. “God bless you.”
Hugh took the two ale-pots from the Fudir’s hands and carried them to a table near the back wall, where there was a sort of niche. He did not look back to see if the Terran added a contribution of his own.
“It was the least you could have done,” the Fudir said when he joined him a moment later. “After all you’ve done to ’em, you may as well do something for ’em.”
By now, Hugh had gotten used to the man’s provocations, and he tried not to let the barb affect him. Yet the sharpest barbs are those that have a point; and he drank from his ale in silence for a few minutes. When he spoke, it was deliberately to another subject. “Did you finish your errand for Greystroke?”
The Terran nodded. “Aye.”
“Will you be taking the Pup to Donovan before we leave for the Hadramoo?”
The Fudir made a face. “Finding the Dancer is more important.”
“I’m rather inclined to think you’re right,” said Greystroke, who was sitting at the table’s third side.
The Fudir shook his head. “I wouldn’t mind learning how you do that.”
Greystroke spread his hands. “There are disadvantages. The waitress doesn’t seem to know I’m here.”
“The question of the missing ships is important, but not urgent,” he continued while Hugh waved down a passing server. “I’ll explain to Fir Li when we pass through Sapphire Point. As for Donovan, I can find him whenever I want.”
The Fudir pressed his lips together. “Can you?”
Greystroke pulled a silver shekel from his scrip and tossed it off his thumb to the Fudir, who caught it in midair. He looked at it, looked at the Pup.
Greystroke said, “You gave that shekel to a one-eyed beggar by the Fountain of the Four Maidens.”
The Fudir studied the coin, rubbed it between thumb and fingers, then slapped it on the table. “You’re robbing beggars now?”
“I was the beggar. Profitably so, I must say. You Terrans are generous to your own, I’ll give you that. I was a sweeper, too—though I lost my broom later in a scuffle.”
A server came with a pot. Greystroke took it from her, and picked the shekel off the table. “No change,” he said, handing it to the server, and indicating the Fudir with an inclination of his head, added, “He’s paying.”
“I thought you had business with the Port Captain,” the Fudir said.
“Oh, that was just a formality. All the data was in the hailing drone. I was in and out before you two had reached Greaseline Street. You’ll be glad to know,” he said to Hugh, “that Jehovah’s preparing a relief armada. Two Hanseatic Liners are in port and their captains volunteered to evacuate the stranded tourists and orbital workers. A cohort of Jehovan rectors will be sent to police New Down Town until League militia arrives. Odd thing is, they should already have…Yes, madam, what is it?”
This last was addressed to a tall, full-faced woman of light peach complexion and short silver hair who had approached their table. “You’re Kalim DeMorsey,” she said to the Fudir. “You shipped out in New Angeles when I took sick. The Alabastrine woman at the bar pointed you out to me.”
The Fudir blinked and remembered. “Micmac Anne,” he said, introducing her to the others. “January’s First. How is the old bastard? I thought he’d turn straight around and go back for another load of refugees.”
“That’s what I came to ask you. When I saw you, I figured he was back. How is the ship holding up? Maggie B. didn’t let it go to pot, did she?”
“January left New Eireann several days ahead of us,” the Fudir said.