more than a watch.”
“That and directions are not worth the watch—take one of whatever those are.” Pointing at the starchy tubes. “One without rot.”
“They all got some rot. Use the knife to cut that bit off.”
Unfastening the watch, he handed this over. He hoped she wasn’t going to try anything because his patience was wearing thin—and the wound was causing him even more pain than it had on the skiff. The roll with the derelict had not helped, may have even torn it open some more. The woman then stabbed a tube and handed this over with the knife. Sniffing at the vegetable, he touched it—it was soft but not very warm. Pulling the knife from it, he tested the weapon. Dull. Not any good for cutting but he’d be able to use it as a stabbing weapon. Better than taking out what he’d packed away. That bit was only in case of emergencies—taking what had happened so far that would come soon enough. Until that time, he needed to husband his resources.
“Now, how do I get off the docks—fastest way?”
“Turn right up here and go straight until you come to a crossroads; there, turn left, heading north; and when you come to another crossroads, turn right again, then the next right. That will open on a main road—follow it north. If you get lost, just keep heading in a northerly direction and you’ll get out soon enough, but my way is fastest.” He nodded. “You from that boat that exploded?”
“How do you...”
“I’ve lived down here all my life. We’ve heard more than a few freighters and munitions vessels blow in our time. When I was a girl, a munitions transport exploded and took out the better part of the docks—lost my whole family in the blast, but I was on the beach selling these,” pointing to the tubes, “and lived.” The last didn’t sound happy about itself, but he supposed her life, though hard before, had taken an even harder turn afterwards.
“Thanks.” Turning away, there was little else he could offer and wasn’t about to go on about where he’d come from on the chance, more like certainty, she’d sell that information. No matter what, the old woman would turn what little she’d learned from him to some ready cash—food more likely, as cash, even northern currency, did not seem to have any meaning. This meant he was going to have to think about what he could part with. At the corner, he turned right onto a gloomy street, a little wider, with buildings on either side that leaned, dangerously, forward and seemed to tremble in the breeze.
Twisting and turning from one street and alley to the next, these consistently grew in breadth and length. This seemed to be a good thing because it meant he was getting close to businesses and that meant traffic. More traffic meant more people, and more people meant a way out. Eventually he found the main road the woman had directed him to, which was a bit of a surprise. There was no reason she should have told him the truth; when he’d gone, there’d be no finding her again. All she had to do was relocate a couple alleys over and he never would have bothered to look further. Why tell him the truth after noticing the backpack he was carrying and how full it was—heavy too. He had to shift it a couple of times during the meeting and a vague clatter had come from this.
Still and all, here he was on what looked to be a main artery built for tractor-trailers and a variety of other heavy vehicles. It was showing its age—the tarmac was chewed up in places and knit together in others with a spidery tar sealant. On his left—looking north and away from the bay—was a bar and grill. Said so, Zampton’s Bar & Grill. The old woman’s vegetable had been good enough to take the edge off, but he needed more food. Some information about the city would be necessary, or advisable, before he went in. Looking around, there was no one on the street. He supposed the show was over—over because they’d a clear view of the bay where the Beluga