A snake composed of flesh and ironvine wound through the streets of Dogtown. At its head a hooded man carrying a flickering lantern and a mace parted the sea of humanity that impeded it. At its rear, two similarly hooded men drove it forward with barbed whips. The snake was a line of slaves, a long ironvine rope threaded through their leg manacles, marching towards their doom. Somewhere towards the rear Thistle swam in and out of consciousness, more carried along than walking. By sheer chance the men attached just behind and ahead of her were willing to support the burden. All along the crowded street people reacted to the parade according to their nature. Some jeered and laughed at the naked wretches, others shuddered and turned away, while a few muttered or even shouted their disgust with the practice. But none was so foolish as to challenge the slavers, lest they end up in the same plight.

Tonight a third of Dogtown was in flames.

Tonight a wild wind blew down from the desert and fanned the madness. Anything seemed possible. In momentary flashes of awareness, Thistle saw the orange glow behind the grey buildings, inhaled the gritty ashes and heard the screams and bells. But mostly she felt the heavy ironwood fetter around her ankle. Each time she passed out was a merciful respite and each time she came to was a delirium of panic and hopelessness. Once or twice a cinder big enough to burn her smooth dark skin fell on her. She welcomed the pain, held on to it. Dimly, Thistle recognized the square they had been led to. This was the slave pen adjacent to Foundry Street. Even on a normal day this was a smoky, soot covered district to be avoided at all costs. Here great sand pits were fired to create cheap glass swords and utensils. Now it was a scene out of one of the five hells. A low hanging cloud cover reflected the various raging fires; dancing orange and black infernos leaping from rooftop to rooftop. Some had already begun to merge into a firestorm. And there were people dancing too. Some danced a mad jig of hate and revenge while others danced because they were engulfed in flames, the flesh blackening and sloughing off their limbs as they pleaded and howled.

Thistle covered her ears after a while. Still the slaving went on. Hard men with whips held back a furious mob of banji and both sides ignored the dancers. The snake of slaves was forced to run the last hundred yards under the urging of their captors. Those that could not were killed on the spot, their feet efficiently whacked away to free the corpses from the ironvine. Soon the unfortunate would be classified: so many for the shipyards, so many for the mines, and the special ones, the young boys and girls, who would serve a brief duty as bed warmers. All were herded into a bamboo cage the size of a house, still occupied by leftover corpses from the last auction. The smell of death competed with the stinking ash that was now coating everything. Thistle crawled as close to the guards as the rope allowed and tried to listen to their words over the groans of her cage mates and the crackle of the fires.

“This is madness,” said the closest one, a scraggly Hybrin with a scarred face. “There’s no profit in getting killed.”

“Shut your mouth,” another growled, a fat man covered in sweat and grease. “You’ll stay and do your job if the whole damn city burns down.”

“I’m telling you fools we need to let the banji go. What have we, thirty banji in there? Free them now, and we might live to tell about it.”

“Are you mad? Banji, Hybrin or Ween, it makes no difference. We are protected; the trade is protected by the city fathers.”

“Look around you, man! Do you see any city fathers, or city guards, or anybody but us and the banji?”

“He’s right,” cried a third slaver. “We can’t stay out here with these banji slaves on display.”

They might all have bolted and ran but there was Querin, one of the men who took her, stalking back and forth. He made dire threats and scoffed at the insurrection. “Are you a bunch of schoolgirls? Haven’t you ever seen a few burning fools running about? By the five hells, we use to do this for sport back in my home village.” Thistle crept back towards the center of the cage. She took stock of the men she was chained to. One was fit and alert, listening to the talk like Thistle was. The other seemed sick or rabid, and made only mewling sounds. She turned away from the lack wit.

“Do you hear?” she asked the man joined to her ankle. “The city burns, the banji have gone mad.”

“I heard. It only means we’ll be roasted in here,” he whispered.

“But if they freed the banji, they would have to remove the whole ironvine from our manacles.”

“They’re not going to free anyone, child. Best you pray to Yumei for a quick death.” Thistle slumped down and beat her temples with her fists. It was hopeless. She heard a familiar cry from the rear of the cage. Here was a sight to bring forth a painful laugh; a few yards away sat wretched Paulo, beaten and bound just like Thistle: his reward for treachery and naivety alike.

A series of explosions rang down Foundry Street, accompanied by a fresh rain of cinder and dust. Probably the glass steam tanks bursting, Thistle guessed. Whatever the cause, the blasts signaled a new level of chaos. The quarreling guards had stopped arguing, Thistle realized. In fact they were gone. All the guards were gone save Querin. She looked around wildly. “Ser!” Thistle pulled savagely at the ironvine. The man shackled to her nodded grimly. Together they maneuvered the rope to the front of the cage, stepping over the weak and the dead. Thistle gestured her intention and the man nodded again.

“Now!” they pushed the vine through the bars, timed just as Querin took a step backward. Because Thistle’s arms were so thin, she was able to loop the vine outside the closely spaced bamboo, snagging the guard’s foot. Now no signal was needed. Both yanked with all their might, the slaver fell face first onto the cobblestone with a sickening crunch. Thistle screamed in joy. But now the bamboo cage was burning. Thick acrid black smoke billowed across the slave pen, and the less fortunate (if that were possible) were already suffocating as they climbed on top of each other to escape the blistering inferno. Thistle’s triumph turned to disaster. The vine, tougher than any rope, and firmly tangled under the dazed Querin now held her flush against the bamboo lattice. Whether she would roast or be crushed was of little interest to the panicked mob. Thistle clawed and tore at the vine glued to her ankle. A tremendous crash rocked the cage, pushing it off its foundation. The rope constricted around Thistle till she could not breathe. Chunks of burning wood were falling all about and the screams became intolerable.

Crash! Again the cage was buffeted.

Thistle looked up in wonder. A great beast was butting the cage, bellowing and roaring with each blow. Huge sheets of ears flapped as massive yellow tusks slammed against the bamboo. Thistle had seen a great many strange things on the wharf in her time; she recognized the creature. “It’s an Oliphant!” she choked the words out, nudging the man she was chained to. But his head dangled at an unnatural angle; he was past hearing. She could feel the animal’s breath on her skin as she stared into its strange red eyes. From behind its giant grey skull she could see a frantic banji man exhorting the beast forward. “Lorme Haz!” the man shouted, and a hundred voices echoed the cry. Once more the Oliphant smashed into the cage. The vine jerked; Thistle felt her rib crack, then another. She tasted her blood, warm and coppery. The world rolled around her and Thistle believed she had finally gone mad. She stared in disbelief as slowly . . . slowly the cage fell onto its side, carrying Thistle higher and higher, sending a huge cloud of ash billowing in every direction. Thistle was suspended some thirty feet above the cobblestones, entangled in ironvine and held fast underneath the bars of the cage. Above her squirmed Querin; they were joined by the rope but separated by the bamboo. Each time he moved the vine constricted more tightly around Thistle. He regained his senses enough to recognize her. Bellowing with hate, Querin maneuvered both of his fat hands over Thistle’s mouth. He pressed with the strength of a desperate man. Thistle had been resigned to death but not at the hands of this man. She had nothing to fight with; the rope was taut, unmovable. He pushed against her face through the bars and she strained backwards. Then it fell out of his jerkin. Her blade: the fragment of starstuff, tied to its leather string and hanging from his neck. He stole that from me! This infuriated Thistle more than all that had passed up till then.

Since the string was cut to hang around her neck it was a tight fit on fat Querin. Thistle grabbed the blade and began twisting. She watched his eyes bulge as the leather cut into his neck. He could not pull his arms back through the bars to prevent it. Their eyes were only inches apart. A look of unutterable surprise filled Querin’s face and Thistle grinned. She twisted harder. When his tongue drooped from his mouth and his grip loosened Thistle knew he was dead. The cage cracked apart suddenly and the bars parted. Slicing through her flesh as it began unraveling and dropping to the street below, the vine flayed her. In an instant both Thistle and Querin’s body were freed. The corpse slid down the bamboo and fell to the street, pulling her along. As Yumei would have it, Querin hit first and broke the girl’s fall. Dimly she heard the crowd cheering. From the splintered ruin of the cage, those that still lived scampered off in every direction. Querin lay under her, wide eyed. Pondering his stupidly in the next life, no doubt.

Thistle rolled the corpse over, and reclaimed her lucky blade, pulling it from his neck and grimacing. She was free. Thistle clutched the shiny fragment of starstuff to her breast, sobbing as if she had been reunited with her birth mother. No one paid her any mind; she was neither banji nor slaver. The Oliphant was gone, perhaps to another slave pen. Thistle limped down the street and every step was agony. Presently the fire and rioting was left behind. Thistle stole a threadbare grey shift from a corpse, drank some water from the gutter. She looked up and down the wharf. I can be invisible or nearly so. On an ordinary night this section of the wharf, known as the King’s Finger was unapproachable, too dangerous for a wharf rat. Now the guard station was empty and the open barrier gate pounded against the wall with each gust of fire driven wind.

Thistle crept along the decking, marveling at the sleek Geytunese warships and the beautiful trade schooners. Here and there a dockworker or sailor hurried along, but they seemed more afraid than she was. Thistle laughed into the scorching wind and each laugh burned through her broken ribs like a branding glass. No matter. Nothing could harm her now; she was already dead, haunting the wharf like some water ghost. And a murderess twice over, she reminded herself. Well then, why not crawl onboard the finest ship in the harbor? After all, what could they do, rape and enslave her? She moved from shadow to shadow, inspecting. Here is a particularly grand vessel. Thistle was, after all, a connoisseur of ships from every corner of the world. She noted approvingly the densely grained ironwood hull, the sleek lines of the cabins and masts. And the ship was clean. It gleamed against the unnatural orange waters and clearly had been swabbed since the ash had started falling. From within the ornate glassed portholes warm lamplight escaped. She could smell onions and carrots simmering.

And so Thistle shimmied up a mooring rope past a ceramic disk that served as a rat guard and took no notice of the ribs digging into her lung. Just before she pulled herself over the weathered figurehead carved in the likeness of Yumei, the girl paused to read the name written in flowing Geytunese script across the bow: Fiddler’s Green. There was a lone sailor on the deck but she had eluded a thousand men sharper than this fool. There could be no hesitation. Thistle ran across the deck and down an open hatch, onto a bale of cotton in the dark cavernous hold. She lay on the cotton for a heartbeat, and could have passed out right there. But it was too exposed. There was a very large crate in the corner of the cargo hold. It seemed to be covered in velvet, by the feel of it. The exhausted girl squeezed between the bulkhead and the crate, wrapped herself in a corner of fine Geytunese velvet and lay on the planking and didn’t even miss the cotton bale. Exhaustion overcame fear, and she fell into a deep sleep.

Fiddler’s Green departed Fornanze as soon as the tide turned, well past midnight. A pilot tug full of straining banji rowers hauled her past the breakwater, where she raised full sail and leaned into the westerlies that never ceased at this latitude. Octillo did not intend to be intercepted again. Nor did he relish the thought of returning to Dogtown in the near future; at least half the city was already a smoldering ruin. Pacing to and fro across the foredeck, Octillo and his captain watched the eerie black clouds (blood red underneath) recede as the ship made way. Presently the only light came from the stars and the two glass lamps that hung from the bowsprit and just above the escutcheon. Octillo lingered a long while, nodding when the mate on the dogwatch approached.

“Everything’s in order, Cap’n” the man said, and Octillo recognized him as one of the sail menders.

“Give us a moment, Harl,” Octillo said. “The Captain and I have one more thing to discuss.” He gave Parma only a cursory glance seeking approval. “It’s about our cargo, Ser.” Octillo said when the mate departed.

“Our cargo — the animal?”

“Loaded and secured, Ser. But if you don’t mind my saying, the banji sent along to care for the thing ain’t worth a fart in the wind. He was drunk before he boarded and he isn’t exactly sobering up.”

“All right, no surprise there. First thing in the morning we’ll have a look.” Parma hesitated. “You didn’t happen to see what the thing is exactly, did you?”

“Who, me, Ser?” Octillo shook his head. “I received no orders to draw back the curtain. Whatever’s behind it growls and is quite large and that’s enough for me. In one of his more lucid moments the handler said that light irritates the beast. He also waves a document under my face he claims is signed by the emperor, like I’d know. Do not disturb, this supposed warrant says.”

Parma tugged at his moustache. “The document is real enough, curse the luck. It seems we ferry a mystery cargo across the pond. Issan uses me to break his own quarantine laws. It won’t be the first time. Alright, thank you for bringing it to my attention, old friend.” Parma had fully intended to investigate the condition of his cargo and made a note to that effect in his journal. As often happened on the open sea, reality overtook planning early in the voyage.

It was barely first light the morning after her departure from the wharf when Fiddler’s Green encountered pirates. Thick as flies they swarmed around the port of Fornanze, growing bolder each year as Issan’s eastern fleet deteriorated. Octillo had watched Parma do everything short of plead with Dozy to escort Fiddler’s Green out of the coastal waters, but the Navel Captain claimed pressing business in Hybrin. Besides, the whole point of shipping contraband on Parma’s ship was to disavow any knowledge if things went badly, as Dozy kept reminding them. It was not a new conversation. The best strategy in dealing with pirates was to outrun them, and Fiddler’s Green was more than capable of doing that. The trade winds out of the east almost never quieted, and the galleon had three times the amount of sail as the small feluccas the pirates favored. It was, Octillo reflected in calmer moments, a game of predator and prey, and as ever, the weak would be culled and the strong survive. Fiddler’s Green was very strong. She was equally a warship and a merchant trader, and she carried a formidable arsenal. Owing to her speed, only a Geytunese dreadnaught was ever likely to match her under full sail. But should Fiddler be caught unawares, she carried a compliment of archers, skilled at both crossbow and longbow. The ship itself was reinforced with a ceramic shell at the bow to facilitate ramming of smaller vessels. Most daunting were her catapults, which launched boulders or bundles of jellied fire.

The pirates near Fornanze were more nuisance than real threat, owing to their flimsy vessels and lack of discipline. Still, they occupied both Octillo’s and Parma’s attention more than they had intended, and this led to a great tragedy for which neither man ever quite forgave himself. Routine was the basis of Octillo’s life. By hewing closely to a set of time tested rituals and habits, his mind ran at a tranquil pace, and his heart experienced no alarming palpitations. He rose each day before dawn and shaved and waxed his head, which sat on his massive shoulders without any evidence of a neck. Most days he wore only loose blue pantaloons and a faded maroon vest, and so must augment his simple attire and squat frame with an over large mustache and complicated mother of pearl ear pendent, polished and arranged according to tradition. When at sea, his mornings were devoted to inspection. First the hull, where a constant vigil against sea worms and barnacles must be maintained. On to the planking, spars, masts, and sheets. The sun and salt air ate pulleys he took particular care with; one fouled line could mean disaster. Having satisfied himself that the Fiddler’s Green was in no immediate danger of disintegrating, Octillo turned his attention to the crew, a motley group of malcontents, misfits and ner-do wells. Through constant haranguing and brow beating, Octillo had transformed the disparate elements into an efficient crew.

The process was ongoing: Seum the lookout often took naps in the crow’s nest, which demanded correction. Lumpkle the cook needed reminders on sanitation habits. Many of the banji dropped their chores at certain times to pray to their water god, a practice which Octillo grudgingly accommodated unless it interfered with safety or commerce. Next the cargo must be inspected. Once off the coast of Hybrin a loose crate had shifted during a storm, punching right through the hull and fouling Captain Parma’s mood for a fortnight. So now every strap must be checked, every basket of rice tested for worms, every vat of wine sipped to insure freshness. The last task may not have been strictly necessary, but Octillo was firm in his routine.

Fiddler’s Green was nine days out of Fornanze when Octillo began to suspect something was amiss. The first mate was not fond of transporting animals, and doubly so when it involved the emperor’s follies. Over the years Fiddler’s Green had carried yaks, manticores, enormous crabs, jaguars, pachyderms, and flea circuses to Geytun, all for the amusement of Issan or his queen. This time it was some sort of large carnivore, judging from the grunts and snorts—a boar perhaps. Since leaving port the cage remained covered and off limits, and the sullen banji who had boarded with the cargo was uncommunicative. Octillo had discharged his duty by informing the Captain of his misgivings. The first mate was for the most part indifferent as long as the creature and its handler did not interfere with routine. But after nine days it became apparent that certain delicacies reserved for Captain Parma’s supper table had gone missing, and a hatch had been left open when it should be secured, and a corner of the hold which should be vacant had been subtly rearranged. These things would have been overlooked by the average first mate, but Octillo was obsessive in such matters. After consulting with Parma, Octillo had the banji handler soundly whipped and threatened with submersion in the Casquieen, but the poor wretch maintained his innocence doggedly. Octillo was forced to reevaluate. “We may have a stowaway, Captain,” he told Parma after they had retired from supper and sat smoking their long stemmed pipes.

Parma’s quarters were composed of the finest teak and ironwood rubbed to a luxurious sheen. Interesting objects from every corner the world lined his shelves and on the wall behind his desk fine silk bunting framed hand embroidered sacred artwork from the highlands beyond Geytun. “My fault I fear. We shipped in the middle of the night like thieves . . .”

“Or smugglers,” The first mate said, earning a look from Parma.

But the captain was too comfortable to work up much outrage. He blew tremulous smoke rings as he spoke. “The authorities take a short sighted view about such matters. This leads to nonsensical situations wherein I must transport beasts for the emperor on the sly. These matters are delicate; I don’t want the banji riled up right now.”

Octillo nodded. “It must be handled nicely, that’s a given. Gods! How did things come to this? We must second guess ourselves to assure peace on board.”

“The banji work twice as hard as the Geytunese, you know that, Octillo. Even if I wanted to, I could not replace them. It’s a small price to pay if we endure some grumbling or suffer their dark looks. Go quietly, take no precipitous action.”

Octillo devised a scheme to draw out the stowaway. On the first night he left a bowl of Hybrin potatoes on a table near the cage. In the morning the count was unchanged and they appeared undisturbed but upon further inspection some were revealed to be hollowed out cunningly. On the second night, Octillo set out a jug of plum wine in a stone pitcher. He was unsurprised to find it watered down in the morning. On the third night a bowl of quinces served as the lure, but this time Octillo sat hiding under a table cloth. It was thirsty work, and he did not neglect to bring his hip flask of brandy. Presently he grew comfortable and drowsy. In the morning Octillo woke stiff and cramped. He crawled out from under the table to find that his socks had been removed from his feet and fitted over his ears and a beard of soot had been drawn over his face so that he took on the semblance of a disheveled donkey. He did not include this fact in his report to Captain Parma. But now the first mate was fueled with righteous indignation. Octillo fashioned a trap consisting of a rope snare on a trip wire, attached to a concealed counterweight. When disturbed the mechanism would pull the unwary stowaway high above the deck, to dangle helplessly until released. Just before dawn he inspected the snare and found to his astonishment the bait missing but the trap unsprung. As he carefully placed new bait in the rope coil, someone or something jiggled the trip wire, and Octillo was flung aloft where he spent an hour upside down sputtering dire oaths until a deck hand found him. 

Outwardly calm, Octillo swore the sailor to an oath of silence. He gave the matter some thought. From under his bunk, the First mate pulled out a battered old chest which contained curiosities and oddities collected in his voyages. He rummaged through it until he found a barnacle encrusted jar.

“I knew I was saving you for something.” Octillo tapped on the jar and grinned. Inside were a knot of sea spiders, dreaded for their irritating sting. That night he released the creatures into the hold and sealed the hatch, thereby insuring the intruder would suffer red welts and sores. Deep in the night a straw poked from a crack under Octillo’s door and the irate insects emerged. He woke in his bunk with a start as first one, then several creatures began stinging and biting under his bed sheets. The entire ship’s company awoke to his screams as he jumped naked into the Casquieen. Almost half a day’s headway was lost by the time Fiddler’s Green circled about and a dinghy was launched to retrieve the sodden first mate. Sputtering and choking out dire oaths as a salve was applied to his backside, Octillo explained to Parma that at least three large men must be considered stowaways onboard, to have overcome him so.

“Evidently,” Parma said, making fretful faces as he inspected Octillo from a distance. “Why do you suppose they inflicted bugs upon you?”

“They must be infested, Ser. A loathsome company by any account!”

“Your suffering shall not go unavenged, old friend.” Parma summoned his banji pilot, who stood amid a knot of chattering crewmen. Jingme, at first reluctant to approach, nodded gravely as Parma outlined his scheme. “Tonight,” he said to Octillo, “the tables will be turned on our uninvited guests.”

In the main, Parma’s plan consisted of this: he walked down to the cargo hold and spoke in a level voice, “Hoy! I offer you amnesty. That means you will not be thrown overboard if you reveal yourselves now. You’ve had a fine joke on my first mate, but I am an equitable captain. You will each be given three lashes, which punishment cannot be avoided. Still, it will pass quickly and then you will have your own bunk and three meals a day as long as you will work. Surely this is better than skulking in the night and sleeping under straw.” The Captain motioned to Jingme and the pilot repeated his terms in the language of the Haz. Long minutes passed and there was no reply. Parma shrugged and turned away. Jingme bowed and departed.

But halfway up the ladder to the hatch Parma heard a small voice behind him. “Only three? Do you promise?”

Parma did not turn, though the thought of a dagger in his back was vexing. “The word of Captain Justuf Parma is like glass coin across the Casquieen. You will be treated fairly.” A heavy sigh. “Then I yield.” He descended the ladder and confronted the stowaway. Parma was careful to mask his reaction. Octillo’s three ruffians proved to be a wretched little girl, thin as a rail, dressed in filthy rags caked with blood. She was neither Geytunese, banji nor Hybrin, but stared back at Parma with enormous brown eyes as if she were Queen of the Ocean. Parma could think of nothing for it but to give her a mock bow. “Welcome to Fiddler’s Green,” he said, removing his hat with a flourish. “How may I address you?”

Conflicting emotions warred across the girl’s face. Suspicion, fear, exhaustion, and perhaps relief. “They call me Thistle—but that’s just a made up name,” she said presently. By this time Jingme and several banji were peering down through the hatch. Word would spread quickly.

“What would you be called then?”

“Thistle will serve. Can we get the whipping over with, Master?”

Parma was silent for a moment then nodded slowly three times. “Come then, a whipping, a bowl of soup and a bed for you.”

As they emerged onto the deck the crew parted before them in a curious silence, until Octillo stood in their path. “Begging your pardon, Captain, but how is this turning the tables?”

Parma put his hand on Octillo’s shoulder. “In this regard, my friend. Instead of being this child’s tormentor, you are going to be her mentor.”

“Not I!” said Octillo.

“Now you regret telling me endless stories of raising three daughters, I’ll wager.” Parma made a sweeping gesture with his free arm. “She is your charge. The matter is decided.”

Octillo’s expression of horror was not lost on Thistle, who looked over her shoulder and stuck her tongue out at the first mate as she was led off to her whipping.