Just then something bumps against the side of the boat. The crewmen murmur and enough crowd to the side to tip the deck. Hannu’s hand folds itself around my arm.
‘That noise was a crocodile. Sailors feed them. Why do you think they do that?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say.
He narrows his eyes. ‘Let’s look at this another way. Why do you think crocodiles always wait where the reeds on the riverbank are trampled down?’
I shake my head.
‘It’s because they know that’s where the cattle drink. And why do you think crocodiles wait by the east bank of the river at sunset and the west bank at sunrise?’ Hannu asks.
I shake my head again.
‘So they can get close to the cattle behind the glare of the sun. Why am I telling you this?’
‘Because you like cows?’ I say.
‘A clever tongue will only get you so far in this world, boy. Work it out.’
‘Crocodiles are dangerous,’ I say. ‘The crew think that if they give them offerings, they won’t eat them.’
‘Good.’
‘But the crocodile doesn’t know that,’ I say. ‘It’s stupid.’
‘Crocodiles just want to eat,’ Hannu says. ‘Fill their bellies and they’ll be less likely to eat you.’
He’s giving off something. You know the heat of stones after a long, hot day? They give off a memory of warmth. What’s coming off him, what’s coming off his stillness is a memory of violence.
‘It’s not just crocodiles, is it?’ I say. ‘It’s people too. Sometimes you have to give people what they want to get them off your back.’
‘You need me to survive, boy,’ he says in a thick voice. ‘So when I ask, you give.’
There’s no wind the next day. The boat tugs sluggishly against its anchor like a lazy fish on a line. The heat builds. The sun’s like a metal plate in the sky. Imi’s sitting quietly in the shade, feeding the ship’s goat. Jatty wakes. He must have fallen asleep on a pile of ropes and they’ve left dents across his cheek. He’s hungover, cross and, from the way he stretches, aching. He stumbles up to the ship’s cook and asks for some bread, complains that it’s stale then leans over the side of the boat and spits into the river.
I keep watching. He drinks water, asks for beer, drinks that too and cheers up. He walks round the boat, talking to the crewmen. Some of them are making knots and he has a go but so badly that everyone laughs. He drinks more beer, rests on a bale of linen, then gets up and finds Dogface and they move to the back of the boat.
No wind so no helmsman, just a little hen coop so the captain can have eggs for breakfast. The ship’s cat likes to sleep on top of it, gazing down at the birds with white-toothed love.
I remember what the Quiet Gentleman said about giving him something so I crawl behind the hen hut. It’s a narrow space littered with old vegetable peelings and droppings. The hens make gentle henny noises, but I can hear Jatty and Dogface over them.
‘I’m still not clear what you want,’ Dogface says. ‘What’s in it for me?’
‘I told you,’ Jatty says. ‘Hannu’s after something.’
‘But what is Hannu after?’ Dogface sounds mean and disbelieving. If he said it was a nice day, you’d check to make sure the sun was shining.
‘He’s not heading to the Horizon out of idle curiosity. He’s plotting.’
‘And the kids?’
‘Cover. The boy makes things. You needn’t worry about them.’
‘What things?’
‘Little model animals out of mud.’
‘Could be blasphemous. The morality police will be interested in that. Might be worth something.’
‘Turn ’em in, sell ’em, send ’em south, stuff ’em in a sack and drop ’em in the river. I don’t care,’ Jatty says. ‘I just want to get Hannu.’
‘So what’s in it for you?’ Dogface asks.
‘Me? I’m just doing my duty for king and country,’ Jatty says. ‘Hail the king and hail the sun.’
‘You want him out of the way. All right. Here’s what we’ll do.’
There’s a creak and the boat heels slightly. Their conversation is cut short by the thunder of bare feet on the deck that starts before the captain even has time to shout: ‘Up sail!’
Jatty and Dogface move away and when the deck is clear, I crawl out of my space and find Hannu, the Quiet Gentleman. He listens very carefully.
‘Very good. That makes my decision easier.’
‘What decision?’ I ask.
He shakes his head as if I’m an idiot for even asking.
Later that day, when the boat is under way and the land – bare desert now – is slipping past us, he gives me a small wineskin.
‘I don’t want that,’ I say. ‘I hate drinking.’
It’s true. When you’ve seen as many drunks as I have, you tend to steer well away.
‘Good. It’s not for you,’ the Quiet Gentleman says. ‘But you’re going to pretend that it is and tonight you’re going to make sure Jatty sees it. And when he takes it off you, which he will, you’re to say that it’s from my secret supply of wine and if I find out it’s gone there’ll be hell to pay.’
‘What then?’
‘Then he’ll drink it and that’s what we want,’ the Quiet Gentleman says.
‘But . . .’ I begin.
‘But nothing. Have you forgotten what you told me? Stuff ’em in a sack and drop ’em in the river. Do you think he’s joking?’
‘But why? Where is this place we’re going? And why are we going there? I need to know. Otherwise . . . it all just feels pointless.’
The Quiet Gentleman takes a deep breath as if he’s controlling himself. ‘All right,’ he says. ‘If it will help you.’
I nod.
‘There’s nowhere else in the world like Horizon City and there won’t be ever again. It’s the king’s brainchild and the people there are the thoughts that flit around it.’
‘But why?’
‘He wanted to break the priests. The old kings were gods, but only because the priests made them so. He changed all that. He said there’s one god, the sun, and he’s the only one that can talk to him. It’s a new city for a new idea.’
‘But why are you going?’ I say. ‘And why am I here? I thought I was just a hostage, but Jatty said you brought me along because I can make things.’
‘It’s better you don’t know.’
‘I need to know,’ I say. I try to talk like the Quiet Gentleman, level and patient, as if I can’t imagine not having the answer. I feel a little surge of excitement – and terror – as I meet his eye and hold his stare, trying to imitate it.
‘Well, well,’ he says. ‘We’re getting close to the city and it’s even changing mud boy into something new.’ He squats suddenly, until his face is close to mine. I can hear the breath in his nose. ‘You making things might help us, but it’s not the point,’ he says. ‘The point is that you and me, boy, are going to commit a new type of crime together. It’s going to be heinous.’
He’s smiling and for the