Silence Is Golden (Storm and Silence 3)

‘Acceptable. Lead on, Karim.’

Luckily, we didn’t encounter any cannibals along the river. If some were going to make a meal of us, however, they would have to hurry. Our supplies were dwindling rapidly, and our water flasks were almost empty. When I mentioned this to Mr Ambrose, he gave a curt nod.

‘Yes, I know, Mr Linton. I would have taken action before, but I wished to get as far ahead as possible of any pursuers first.’

‘Taken action? How?’

‘You’ll see.’

He wouldn’t say a word more. That night, when we made camp, Karim, at a nod from his employer, pulled out an axe and started chopping down saplings. Soon, he had four serviceable sticks, cleaned of bark and branches. Ramming them into the ground, he went over to his knapsack.

‘What are you doing?’ I wanted to know.

The only answer I got was a grunt. These days, Karim didn’t even glare at me anymore, due to my lack of clothing. At least he had stopped walking around with his hand in front of his eyes after he had run into a tree for the ninety-seventh time.

Karim returned with a large, folded piece of leather. As he spread it over the sticks, I saw that it had a little hole in the middle, that was now hanging at the lowest point of the construction. A raindrop from above fell on the leather, ran down the slope and slipped through the hole - just in time to drop into the bowl which Karim had placed beneath.

I was so fascinated by the construction that I hadn’t even noticed Mr Ambrose’s absence. Only when he returned out of the direction of the river, a four-pronged wooden spear in one hand, and a bundle of fish in the other, did I realise he had been just as busy as Karim, if not more so. I took in the sight of him, swallowing. Marching towards me in his tailcoat and tight trousers, carrying spear and fish, he seemed like a strange mix of master of civilisation and caveman. On most men, such a mixed look would have looked ridiculous. But one look at the way Mr Ambrose handled his spear was enough to make clear that this was one hundred per cent real. If civilisation collapsed tomorrow and he would have to make his way in the wilderness, I had no doubt he would be just as much master of the situation as he was in his office at Empire House, 322 Leadenhall Street.

I watched him while he cleaned and skinned the fish with efficient movements. It was fascinating, but also pretty unappetising. I couldn’t imagine ever eating something that slimy. But once he had gotten a fire going and the smell of roasting fish was drifting over towards me, water started to run in my mouth.

Good God! I’d had no idea that I was so hungry! Was one of those fishes actually for me?

I pondered the question.

Yes, it probably was. But Mr Ambrose would also probably deduct the cost for it from my wages. And since it had been fished by Britain’s richest financier, the cost was bound to be pretty high.

I sighed. There was no help for it. I might like to think of myself as independent, but here in the jungle I wasn’t. At least until I got Mr Ambrose to teach me how to make one of those spears. Resigned to my fate, I settled against a tree and closed my eyes to wait. I was in no hurry to find out how much Mr Ambrose would demand for half a roasted fish.

‘Here.’

My eyes snapped open.

He was there, in front of me. Mr Rikkard Ambrose, towering above me, his hand extended. And in his hand was a stick, still smoking, with the first tw

o roasted fish.

‘W-what?’ I blinked up at him, in complete confusion.

He cocked his head. ‘Eat.’

And, with a look so dark and intense I was incapable of resisting, he shoved the stick into my hand. His eyes swept over me, from top to bottom, as if he wanted to check that all was still there, then he turned, marched back to the fireside and resumed skinning fish.

I sat there, with the stick in my hand, taking it all in.

Mr Ambrose had just given something to me.

Mr Rikkard Ambrose, uncrowned King of the Misers of Great Britain and Ireland, had just given something to me without demanding anything in return.

Well, well. Miracles do happen.

Deciding to postpone thinking about the immense theological-philosophical implications of this wondrous event until later, I dug into my fish. The taste hit me like a sledgehammer, and I leaned back, sighing in bliss. I suppose that, to many people, the fish would have tasted a little bland. But to yours truly, who had grown up on a diet of potatoes and dry bread in the household of her generous uncle, they seemed like the sweetest feast heaven could offer. In other words, almost as good as solid chocolate.

We continued along the riverbank, marching almost as fast as during the previous days, but making camp slightly earlier so Karim could set up his rainwater-catching contraption and Mr Ambrose could go fishing. The moment he picked up his spear that second evening, I was at his side, grasping the wooden shaft and halting him in his tracks.

His eyes zeroed in on me.

‘What do you want, Mr Linton?’