Not in the Cargo Ledger

Everything gets weighed in Ratchet. Fish, ore, promises. When I stepped off the ship with a letter, the goblin on the quay asked why I hadn’t paid a courier. ‘Too expensive.’ He looked at my travelling bag and ruined boots. ‘Then you’re very bad at arithmetic.’

The letter was for an orc named Rukhan. My mother had written it before her hands grew too weak to hold a quill. She said he had once done something for us. She never said what. On the envelope was his name, and beneath it: Ratchet, if he’s still there. That wasn’t an address. It was hope.

I found him by the nets. An old orc with a stiff hand, showing a young troll how to mend a torn mesh. When I said his name, he looked first at my sword. I drew the letter out slowly. He recognised the handwriting before he saw the seal.

‘From Alena?’ I nodded. He took the envelope very carefully, then handed it back. He couldn’t read the script. I should have thought of that. Instead, I stood there feeling as though my journey had reached its destination and lost it at the same time.

We sat behind a pile of rope. I broke the seal I had guarded all that way. The first line read: You’ve probably forgotten who we were. Rukhan shook his head before I could read the second.