They left the stall and made straight for Yashar Street under Anthē’s direction. It was more of an extended alley than a street, so it would not take them too long to find the ‘place for lost children’ by trial and error. They had to knock on three doors before anyone even answered: a grumpy old man, who sent them five more doors down the street to where it formed two corners with an extremely narrow side-alley lined with buildings that were even more dilapidated than was standard for Ir. They found the door to their destination down this alley, as per his directions, and knocked. No answer. Anthē tried the handle.

Inside they found a single big room. It was full of children. Some, very young, were waddling around with not very many clothes on, bumping into each other and squealing with delight or distress at the most minor of variations in their tiny worlds. Others, slightly older, sat playing with bits of string and discarded boxes, absorbed in their miniature creations. At the back of the room, by the wall, were a collection of mats and blankets, largely vacant, except at one end by a door where a number of other children lay. Of these, almost all were asleep, and all were visibly ill or disfigured in some way. Bandages shrouded heads and limbs. Skin diseases marred features. One boy had only one leg.

And there, not lying on one of the the mats, but kneeling next to a boy with a purple growth on his face, dipping a flannel into a bucket of water and dabbing the boy’s forehead with it, was Tromo. He had not seen them come in.

“There he is!” said Zantheus. He crossed the room, dodging an assortment of gurgling obstacles, most of whom paid him no attention, though one or two stared up in awe at their shiny new visitor. Just as he was about to greet Tromo, the door opened and a woman came through it. “How is he–” she started to say to Tromo, but she stopped when she noticed Zantheus and Anthē. She was middle-aged, her remarkably youthful face betrayed only by greying hair and pronounced laughter-lines. Sensing something had happened, Tromo looked up. His curious eyes grew a little brighter at the sight of Zantheus, but other than that he showed no sign of surprise.

“Greetings,” said Zantheus to the woman. “This boy belongs to me.”

“I better handle this, Zantheus,” said Anthē despairingly. “Hello, my name is Anthē, and this is Zantheus. Sorry to barge in here without telling you. What is this place?”

“Um...” said the woman, taken aback. “It’s an orphanage. And my name is Merimna, for what it’s worth.” She addressed Zantheus. “You say this boy belongs to you?”

“He is...in my care.”

Merimna’s face broke into a smile. “Well, you must have been doing a good job. I’ve never known a child to be so compassionate. He’s been helping me nurse my patients. It’s just a shame he never talks; I’m sure he’d have lovely things to say.”

Zantheus looked down at the boy, who still clutched his flannel, which dripped now and again into the bucket. For a brief moment he was distracted from his personal quest. “Where did all these children come from?” he asked Merimna.

The woman’s face became grave, though all the time that she spoke she looked at her ‘patients’, her eyes themselves shot through with compassion. “Their parent, or parents, if they were lucky, died or abandoned them. Or they were thrown out by them. Many come from the brothels just outside the town. They have a system where they rotate their workers, but it doesn’t always work.”

“I know about that,” said Anthē. “We’ve just come from there. I used to…‘work’ at one of them…”

“I am glad you have stopped,” said Merimna. There was no animosity in her voice. “So, this is your child?”

“Oh, no, he isn’t,” said Anthē quickly.

“And I suppose you’re not going to tell me you’re his father?” Merimna said to Zantheus.

“No, I am not. The boy came into my care through certain...circumstances. He wandered off from me a couple of days ago. Now that I have seen that he is safe, I can continue on my way to Qereth.”

“What?” said Anthē. “We can’t leave him here, Zantheus! What are you talking about?”

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This threw Zantheus. “But...I thought...He will be perfectly alright here. He seems to be able to make himself useful.”

“So what?” asked Anthē incredulously. “You’re not just going to abandon this little boy, are you?”

“He will be better off with you,” said Merimna. “It is a difficult life here. As you can see, I have many other children to look after. We do not always have an enormous amount to eat. It’s no life for a child really. It’s unusual that you’ve even come here to look for him, to be honest. None of these children have anyone who would do that for them. You should take him with you.”

Zantheus considered his options. He had not been confronted by such poverty and wretchedness ever before in his life. He wanted to get away from this place, to put it out of his mind, to know that the boy was safe and be done with him. It was bad enough that he had somehow acquired this woman as a travelling companion along with his eccentric writing guide, why should he have to take this unspeaking child into his care again? Tromo would only slow him down even more. And yet, despite this, something irked him. He remembered how the boy had saved him during the battle on the ship. He remembered the thought of Tromo drowning unnoticed, and of diving into the sea to rescue him. But this was different, surely?

He supposed Anthē and Merimna had a point. It would be kinder to the boy to take him with them. If they ever found any of his surviving family in Qereth he would fare a lot better there than here with all of these hungry, ill, forgotten children. It was the noble thing to do.

“I suppose it is the noble thing to do,” said Zantheus.

“It’s the right thing to do!” altered Anthē. “Thank you for looking after him, Merimna, we’ll take him off your hands now.”

“Incidentally,” said Zantheus, “may I ask you how the boy came to arrive here?”

“Of course,” replied Merimna. “My husband brought him back yesterday. He said he found him wandering the town on his own. Since he is a little older, we did hope someone would be along sooner or later to collect him. I suppose it is not too difficult to lose a boy who does not talk.” She looked at Tromo fondly.

“Well, we had better be on our way,” said Zantheus.

“Wait,” said Merimna. “Before you go, I have something to give him. Hold on a moment.” She turned and went back through the door she had entered by.

Tromo, who had been listening to this whole conversation with quiet interest, looked up at Zantheus.

“I suppose introductions are in order,” said Zantheus. “Greetings again, Tromo. This is Anthē. She’s going to be joining us on our journey back to Qereth.”

Anthē crouched down to be level with Tromo and extended her hand to him with a smile. “Hello, little one,” she said. Tromo smiled in return, thrilled to have made a new friend, and took her hand. She shook it gently and at once an unbreakable alliance was formed.

Merimna reappeared and Anthē got to her feet so she could take her place. “Tromo,” Merimna called him by his name for the first and last time, “this is for you.” She handed him a small, round, blue object on a string. “Here, you wear it like this.” She lifted the string over his head like a necklace so that it hang by his chest. Tromo inspected his present. From a distance, you might think it was a fairly large shell from the beach. But up close you could see that it had a series of holes of different sizes cut into it, and one straight slot in a little jut that was clearly a mouthpiece. It was an instrument. “I’ve never been very good at it. But, although you can’t speak with words, maybe you will learn how to speak through this. Give it a blow.”

Tromo blew, with none of the holes covered over, producing a single long, clear note. Lots of the children looked round. One girl nearby started to wail. “Brilliant!” praised Merimna as she went over to the wailing girl and picked her up. “There there, Chara, there’s no reason to get upset. You’ll get better as you practice,” she said to Tromo. “By the time you’re all grown up you’ll be very skilled at it.”

“Thank you for looking after him,” said Zantheus, remembering some form of courtesy. “We should really be leaving now.”

No sooner had he said this than the door by which they had come in swung open with an “I’m home!” and another person stepped into the orphanage. This arrival was immediately mobbed by the children, including Chara, who wriggled out of Merimna’s arms to rush over to him. “Don’t worry, don’t worry!” he said out of a sea of toddlers. “There’s enough for everyone! Phago had extra to give me today!” The man, who had grey hair and looked less youthful than Merimna, though also in middle age, was referring to a sack to which the children were jostling to gain access. It contained a variety of almost gone-off fruit, which were gulped down greedily as the most boisterous children claimed the reward of their struggles or when the man was able to extract one from the sack and hand it to a child at the rear of the melee.

“You must meet my husband, Chito, before you go,” said Merimna, ushering them all forward. “Dear, we have company.”

“Welcome, welcome,” said Chito, preoccupied with his fruit distribution. “What brings you to our humble ab—” He looked up, and froze. His face had gone deathly pale. He had recognised someone. “Anthē...what are you doing here?” he asked with a mixture of surprise and fear.