Free Wasp by Ian Garbutt Page A

of sharp notes using his fingers. The cart lurched forward, back axle squealing. It should’ve been greased days ago but there’d been enough work to do around this stinking port.
    Another job lost, the Fixer thought, and here I am running away again. The same fear. The same pain in the gut.
    The Shire’s steps were laboured. It smelled of leather and stale dung. The potboy was supposed to see to the animal’s welfare but was getting more idle by the day. A taste of the rope across the backs of his legs would sort him. Not that it mattered now.
    The quay remained quiet. No light appeared. No one came running. The watchman was gone, his brazier choking in the drizzle. He’d be in the gin house with his toothless doxy and fetch no grief because of it. Who, after all, would steal from a slaver port?
    Into the lane. The squealing axle settled to a low whine. After a few minutes the cold started to bite deep, even under the straw. A distraction from the Fixer’s wounds. He’d had no time to stitch the cuts but had cleaned the worst with alcohol and bound them tight. None of the sword strokes had hit anything critical. He might not bleed to death but the buggers were going to scar. He took a vial of laudanum from his salvaged doctor’s bag and risked a few drops. Any more and he’d be no use to anyone.
    They reached a crossroads, handpost stark against star-punctured clouds. The rain had fizzled out. ‘Go that way,’ the Fixer told the darkie, nudging his tar-spiked back. Another click of the fingers and the cart turned, wheels settling into soggy ruts.
    Don’t let us get bogged down. Not now.
    He fiddled with a tinderbox and lit the lantern hanging beside the driver’s perch. They were too far into the trees to be seen from the docks. In the yellow glow the young mother’s face was pale and drawn above the mound of straw under which she’d buried herself. Her baby had settled in the makeshift swaddling. The darkie muttered words in some incomprehensible tongue but the Shire’s tread on the road seemed sure enough. The Fixer settled in the straw next to the girl and slipped a warming arm around her. Already the pain was receding. As the laudanum deadened his body he couldn’t tell where his troubled thoughts ended and the dreams began.

    He sat up, wide awake. The cart had left the road and was standing behind a screen of trees. They were in a sloping clearing, thick with wild grass and the skeletons of old brambles. Using the lantern, the darkie had set light to a small pile of grass. As the Fixer watched, a bundle of twigs was added to the guttering flames.
    He checked the girl. Her eyes were closed, her breathing low but irregular. Sheer exhaustion had knocked her into sleep. The Fixer fumbled under the straw. No fresh blood. He’d take a proper look as soon as chance allowed. He eased himself away from the girl and out of the cart, throwing both arms around himself like a shroud.
    The darkie stared at the smoky blue flames. ‘Bad wood,’ he said when the Fixer joined him. ‘Burns like wet hide, but we need to get some heat inside our bones. I have known cold before, but not like this.’
    ‘Is that why you left the road?’
    He nodded towards the Shire. ‘The animal needs to rest or it will fall between the shafts.’
    ‘How far have we come? Did you see whitewashed stones spaced along the road with markings on them? Can you remember how many?’
    The darkie marked them off with his fingers.
    ‘Sixteen miles. No sign of anyone coming after us?’
    ‘We joined a better road a thousand paces back. I saw no one.’
    ‘That’ll change. Dawn’s about two hours away. I slept harder than I meant to.’
    ‘I saw you swallow something. It made you snore like a wild hog.’
    ‘That may be, but it’s wearing off and I’m starting to hurt. We can’t linger here.’
    ‘Tell that to your horse.’
    ‘Hunger will soon wake the baby. She’ll get nothing good from her mother’s breast. We need to find milk