‘You’re not going, then,’ someone said, as Dassascai flicked his blade backwards and forwards across the strop.
‘Of course I’m going,’ Dassascai replied. ‘But my stuff won’t take long to get ready. No point rushing to pack everything away and then sitting on my hands for a couple of days waiting for the rest of you.’
‘Won’t be a couple of days, if Temrai’s got anything to do with it,’ the man replied. ‘We’re out of here at dawn tomorrow; anybody and anything that isn’t ready, stays.’
Dassascai smiled. ‘We’ll see,’ he said. ‘I think he’s forgotten exactly what’s involved in moving this camp. It’s not like we’ve only been here a week; you can’t just bundle seven years in a bag and sling it over your shoulder.’
‘That’s what he said,’ the man answered. ‘You want to take the matter up with him, you go ahead.’
‘No need,’ Dassascai said. ‘All I’ve got to do is fold the tent, catch up the ducks and I’m ready to go. You get practice moving on at a moment’s notice when you’re a refugee.’
The man grinned. ‘I’m sure,’ he said. ‘Here, is it true what they say? About you being a spy?’
Dassascai inclined his head. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Pulling feathers off ducks is just a hobby.’
The man frowned, then shrugged. ‘Ah, well,’ he said. ‘If you really are a spy, stands to reason you wouldn’t admit it.’
‘Do you think I’m a spy?’ Dassascai asked.
‘Me?’ The man thought for a moment. ‘Well, people say you are.’
‘I see. So who am I spying for? The provincial office? Bardas Loredan? The Bad Tooth pixies?’
‘How should I know?’ the man replied, irritated. ‘Anyway, whoever it is, won’t do them any good. Temrai’ll keep one step ahead, just you see.’
‘So I should hope, if he’s supposed to be leading the way.’
When the man had gone, Dassascai carefully wrapped the knife in an oiled cloth and put it away in his satchel. Then he pulled out a little brass tube, tapped the roll of paper out of it and spread it over his knee. There was nothing written on it. Having first looked about him to make sure nobody was paying him any attention, he reached down and fished a thin piece of charred wood out of the dead edge of the fire. He tested it on a corner of the paper. It wrote well.
He didn’t start off with the name of the person he was writing to; only one person would ever see it, and that person didn’t need to be told his own name. Instead, he wrote, For gods’ sakes, tell me what you want me to do, rolled the paper up again and stuffed it into the tube. Then he reached into the duck pen, pulled out a large, fat drake and broke its neck by gripping it just below the head and whirling the body round fast, like a man with a slingshot. When it was dead he picked a little folding knife out of his sash, opened it and slit the duck from just under the ribs down to the vent. With a sharp turn of his wrist, almost gracefully easy from long practice, he flicked the stomach and intestines out through the slit, slipped the message tube in their place, and quickly stitched the slit up with horsehair and a steel needle that lived buried in the fabric of his coat collar. That done, he walked away from the camp towards the mouth of the river, where a single ship was tied up to the remains of the old Perimadeia wharf. He was just in time to intercept the two people he wanted to see.
‘Excuse me,’ he said.
Gannadius looked up. ‘Yes?’
‘Sorry to trouble you,’ Dassascai said, ‘but I need to send someone a duck. Would you be kind enough to take it to the Island for me?’
Gannadius looked at him. ‘You’re sending somebody a duck?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Alive or dead?’
‘Oh, dead.’
Gannadius frowned. ‘But that’s silly. You can buy a duck from any poulterer’s stall.’
‘Not like this duck you can’t. It’s a sample. Special order.’ He smiled. ‘Got the delivery instructions today. If he likes the sample, he’ll take them a thousand at a time. You’d be doing me a real favour.’ Dassascai smiled pleasantly and pulled the duck out from inside his shirt. ‘See?’ he said. ‘Now admit it, that’s a real honey of a duck.’
‘I suppose so,’ Gannadius said doubtfully. ‘But won’t it have gone – well, you know, bad?’
Dassascai shook his head. ‘Don’t you believe it,’ he said. ‘Four days is just about perfect to bring out the flavour. My friend’ll see you right for your trouble, if that’s what you’re worried about.’
‘Oh, no, that’s all right,’ Gannadius replied quickly. It was a matter of honour with Islanders that they always carried and delivered letters if they possibly could; an essential ethic for a commercial nation. Expecting a reward for doing so was considered extremely bad form, like asking a drowning man for cash in advance before rescuing him. ‘It’s just – well, all right.’
‘Thanks,’ Dassascai said, beaming. ‘That’s a great weight off my mind. I’ve been trying to close this deal for ages, but there’ve been so few ships going your way I was worried sick my man’d lose interest and the whole thing would fall through.’
He handed Gannadius the duck, head upright. Gannadius looked at it with faint disgust. ‘No offence,’ he said, ‘but it looks just like an ordinary duck to me.’
Dassascai nodded. ‘Exactly. But it’s a cheap duck. They’re the rarest and most sought-after variety there is.’›
‘Fair enough,’ Gannadius replied dubiously. ‘But wouldn’t it be better to send him a live one? Then he could kill it himself and there’d be no risk of it going bad.’
‘Ah.’ Dassascai furrowed his brow and grinned. ‘And suppose somebody else gets hold of it and starts breeding from it; that’d be the end of my business opportunity, for sure. If you knew ducks, you’d realise what you’ve got there.’
‘If you say so,’ Gannadius said, wishing he hadn’t got involved in the first place. ‘All right, who’s it to go to?’
‘I’ve written it down,’ Dassascai answered. ‘Don’t look so surprised,’ he added with a smile. ‘Some of us can read and write, you know.’
‘Of course. I didn’t mean to imply-’
‘That’s all right then.’ Dassascai pushed a little scrap of parchment into his hand and curled his fingers over it, squeezing so hard that Gannadius flinched. ‘I really appreciate this,’ he said. ‘Something like this could be good news for both our countries.’