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
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
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