Sandry's Book

Something thumped nearby: an open leather chest slammed against a mast. Again it thumped against the wood as water swelled, then flattened beneath it. She could just glimpse its contents, some bundles and dark glass bottles. It was what Traders called a suraku—a survival box. They were kept everywhere on the ships. She had to get it, and she prayed that its contents weren’t soaked or ruined.

Daja reached out. The box was beyond her grasp. She looked around for a long piece of wood to grab it—with no luck. Water surged in another slow roll, and her raft moved away from the wreckage. The box stayed behind.

“No!” she cried. “No!” She strained to grab that precious thing, though yards now lay between her and it. “Come here! Come on, I—I order you!” She half-laughed, half-cried to hear such foolishness. “Come on,” she whispered, as she had when she coaxed the ship’s dogs to come to their food bowls. She was not very old, after all—she did not want to die. Tears rolling down her cheeks, she reached out and twitched her fingers as if she were beckoning to her pets.

Later she would wonder if she had just imagined it, being crazy with the sun and terrified of death. Now she stared, jaw dropping, as the box pulled away from the mast and floated toward her. It stopped twice along the way. Both times she wiggled her fingers, afraid to move anything else. Both times the box came forward, until it bumped her hand.

Very, very carefully, she drew her prize onto the hatch cover. It was indeed a suraku, lined with copper to keep the damp out and life in. The bundles were oiled cloth, to keep their contents dry. The corks in the bottles had wax seals. Gently she felt through everything and grabbed a bottle. It took nearly all her strength to wriggle the cork out. When it popped free, liquid sprayed onto her face. Fresh water! Greedily, she drank most of that bottle before she came to her senses. If she guzzled it all now, there would be less for tomorrow. She had to save it. She fumbled to put the cork back in. Inspecting the other bottles, she saw they also held water.

“Thank you, Trader Koma,” she whispered to the god of deals and rewards.

In the bundles she found cheese, bread, apples. She ate carefully, in tiny bites, as her lips cracked open and bled. All thought of the future had vanished: for right now, she was gloriously alive.

The suraku lasted for three days, and might have kept her for two more if she ate less than ever. In all that time, she saw no sign of ships. It was still early in the trading season—captains more cautious than her mother were still in port.

Knowing her food was nearly gone, she tried to strike a deal with Koma and his wife, Bookkeeper Oti. “I don’t look like much now,” she told them, her voice only a thin croak, “but I’m a better deal than you think! I’m strong, I know most seaman’s knots—except maybe the pinned sheepshank, but I’ll work on that.” She bit her lip. She didn’t dare cry—it would mean losing water, with none to replace it.

Far away, so far that it didn’t seem real, she heard the crack of canvas. Was it a dream? Slowly, she turned her head. She was in the trench of a swell—all she could see were the peaks of water on either side.

Her nostrils flared. The wind blew as the trench she was in rose and flattened. New smells drifted into her nose. Breathing deep, she recognized the dull odor of brass riding on the back of the deep, rusty tang of iron.

Metal meant people, didn’t it? Metal—except for the bands on her raft, and in the box at her side—went straight to the bottom without a ship to hold it up.

“Ahoy!” A man’s voice sounded over the water. “Ahoy! Are you alive?”

“Yes!” Daja cried. She kept a hand on her beautiful suraku. The other she stretched as high as she dared and waved carefully. If she fell in now, she was far too weak to swim.

She lost track of time. It seemed like forever until she heard the splash of oars and saw a longboat come alongside. In its bow sat a lean white man. His large, dark eyes were set deep under thick brows and a heavy fringe of black lashes. He wore long, silver-and-black hair tied back. A Trader to the bone, she noted that his yellow shirt and gray breeches were linen and well made, not a sailor’s usual cheap wool.

“Hello there,” he said, as casually as if they’d met at the marketplace. “My name is Niko—Niklaren—Goldeye. I’ve been looking for you. I’m sorry not to have found you sooner.” As sailors guided the boat closer, he reached for Daja and pulled her into the boat. Someone held a flask of water to her lips.

“Wait!” she cried, voice rasping, as she fought to sit up. “My—my box! There!” She pointed. “Please—save it!”

The sailors looked at Niko, who nodded. Only when they had brought the chest into the boat and stowed it next to her did she relax and drink their water.

In Hajra, port city of Sotat:

The first time the Hajran Street Guard caught Roach with a hand on someone else’s purse, they tattooed a X on the web of skin between his right thumb and forefinger, then tossed him into a big holding cell overnight. Nursing his sore hand, Roach went straight to the far edge of the chamber, where a watery beam of sunshine reached down from an opening in the wall. Patches of cushiony moss grew there. Sitting on the floor, Roach found that one of them made a fine pillow.

Months later, a shopkeeper grabbed Roach as the boy helped himself to a few scarves. The Hajran Street Guard took him, tattooed an X on the web of his left hand, and tossed him into the same holding cell. The moss had grown to cover most of a corner. It made a soft couch where he could sleep and wait to be released in the morning.