CHRISTINA

SOONTORNVAT
 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and
incidents are either products of the author’s imagination
or, if real, are used fictitiously.

Text copyright © 2022 by Christina Soontornvat

Map illustration copyright © 2022 by Christina Chung

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced,

transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in
any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical,
including photocopying, taping, and recording, without prior
written permission from the publisher.

First edition 2022

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 2021947153

ISBN 978-1-5362-0495-7

22 23 24 25 26 27 LBM 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Printed in Melrose Park, IL, USA

This book was typeset in Bembo.

Candlewick Press
99 Dover Street
Somerville, Massachusetts 02144

www.candlewick.com

A JUNIOR LIBRARY GUILD SELECTION

 For Tom,
my compass
ROTAN
WILNA

MATCHKA

HINMAK
MANGKON

SANALAK

PITAYA
ISLAND DUSAK
AMNAJ
STELLAM
PADU
ARCHIPELAGO
Equator
LAMNAM THE DESERDELLS

FAHLIN

LONTAIN
FAH

AVENS
ISLAND
chapter one
A Golden Morning

I must have looked like all the other Assistants

standing in line for breakfast that morning at the
Three Onions Café. We all wore the same starched
white shirts, gray trousers, and stiff black cotton aprons
with deep pockets. The Assistant’s uniform was meant
to put each of us on the same level, making us equals
for the one year we would spend in service.
What a joke.
We may have worn the same clothes, but it was
still clear as glass where we stood. We knew without
asking who among us had carriages and who had to
walk, whose mothers held important positions on this
or that council, which of us had maids and which ones
had to clean out their own bed pots. No one ever said
anything, but we knew.
 I lingered at the back of the line, doing my impres-
sion of the shy girl: feet tilted inward, head tipped down,
looking like someone who had nothing to add to
the conversation. You could learn more about people
if they didn’t think you were worth talking to, and
I had a whole list of other details I needed to pay close
attention to if I was going to play along with them.
Hair: combed free of lice and braided lovingly by
my “mother” (or even better—my “maid”). Fingernails:
cleaned out and filed. Shoes: the right kind, purchased
from the right shop, shined, and with nothing icky
sticking to the soles. Spine: held straight, as if I were
proud of where I came from and had a bright future
to look forward to.
Grumble!
I coughed to mask the sound of my growling
stomach. A full belly was the one thing I couldn’t
fake, and coming to the Three Onions in the morning
only made the grumbling worse. The steam in the
wood-paneled restaurant smelled of fresh oysters,
chopped garlic, and green herbs. It took real effort not
to stick out my tongue and lick the air.
Something felt different from other mornings,
though. The kids in line were chattier than usual. A
tall Assistant leaned her elbow on the counter while

2
the others pressed in close, hanging on her words.
I called her Tippy because of the way she tipped her
head back to look down at the rest of us. I didn’t
know much about her except that she worked for a
Master Pastry Chef near the temple square. Tippy had
always been popular and pretty, but that morning, she
was glowing.
She laughed and smoothed her long braid over her
shoulder. The light from the café windows bounced
off something golden and shiny at her wrist.
So that was it. A lineal.
A pang of jealousy worked its way into my empty
stomach. She must have turned thirteen the day before.
The other Assistants pushed in closer to gape at
Tippy’s gold bracelet. “Hold it up so we can all see!”
said one of them. “Oh, it’s so pretty!”
The others oohed and aahed as Tippy held up her
wrist and gave the bracelet a little jangle.
“How many links is that—five?” asked another
girl, unable to hide the envy in her voice. That spring,
she had been the first among us to get her lineal. She
touched it now self-consciously: four golden loops
hanging from a brooch pinned to her blouse.
Tippy answered, a little too loudly, “Actually, it’s
seven.”

3
 Everyone murmured and pressed in closer to
count the golden rings of her bracelet for themselves.
Each link in a lineal represented one generation of
ancestors—ancestors whose names you knew, ones
you were proud to claim.
In my mind, I let out a snort. With a background
that fine, what was she doing as a baker’s Assistant?
Suddenly, I realized that all the eyes in the café had
turned to me.
ipe! At least I thought I’d snorted in my mind.
Tripe!
Tippy narrowed her eyes at me. “You, at the back
of the line. What’s your name?”
“Order forty-nine!” shouted a shrill voice behind
the counter.
Thank the heavens!
I squeezed past the girls to get to the counter,
then bowed to Mrs. Noom and took the container of
porridge from her. “Thank you, ma’am,” I said in the
meekest version of my shy-girl voice. “I had better be
going. I’m already late!”
I could feel the other Assistants’ eyes on me as
I passed. I knew they were sizing me up. They couldn’t
look down their noses at me until they figured out
which rung of the ladder I stood on.

4
 And what if they knew the truth—that I wasn’t
even on the ladder? That in a few months, when I
turned thirteen, there wouldn’t be so much as a cake
crumb, let alone a lineal celebration? I had no proud
family line, no noble ancestors. There was exactly one
link to my past, and it certainly wasn’t made of gold.
If they knew the truth, they would think I was
nothing.
And who could blame them?

5
chapter two
The Master Mapmaker

S team billowed behind me as I burst out the café

door. It had rained the night before, and the sky
still shimmered like a sardine’s belly. Before heading up
the street, I stopped to say good morning to the café
owner’s mother. She was in her usual spot on the side
porch of the café, but instead of sitting in her chair, she
stood leaning on her cane, her wrinkled face turned
out to sea.
“Good morning, Grandmother Noom,” I said
softly. She couldn’t see anymore, but the woman could
hear like a fox. I put my hand over hers, touching the
dark-green lines of faded tattoos that snaked up her
wrist and disappeared into her sleeve.
Grandmother Noom had been a merchant sailor
when she was younger. I liked to imagine her as a pirate.
 “Can you smell the sea from here, Grandmother?”
I asked.
“I can always smell ’er,” she said without turning
her head to me. “Do you hear them?”
“Hear what?”
“The hammers ringin’ down in the harbor,” she
said in a hoarse whisper.
I listened but couldn’t make out anything over the
sound of people talking in the café and greeting one
another on the street.
Grandmother turned her eyes to me, looking past
my face. “They’re readyin’ the boats,” she whispered.
“I can hear ’em hammerin’ the copper to the hulls.
We’re goin’ to war again.”
I patted her papery hand. I’d only ever known her
to be sharp as a tack. Maybe her age was finally catching
up to her. “I’m sorry. I have to go or I’ll be late.”
I helped her back to her chair and bowed even though
I knew she couldn’t see it.
I crossed the street and headed uphill toward the
Paper District. I turned onto Plumeria Lane, holding
the porridge steady as I climbed the narrow stone
steps. Up I went, past the bookshop, the paper-maker,
the calligrapher, the other bookshop, and the art
dealer.

7
 All along the way, tidy shopkeepers in tidy aprons
were busy sweeping the front steps of their stores. This
had to be the cleanest street in the city of An Lung.
The only thing allowed to litter the ground here were
the pink-and-white blossoms of the plumeria trees
that hung over the shop windows.
In a place this serene, how could anyone believe we
were going back to war? After two decades of fighting
every neighbor in striking distance, the Kingdom of
Mangkon was bigger and stronger than ever. We finally
had peace. We had security. It meant I actually had a
good job for once.
At the top of the hill, the Temple of Nine Islands
loomed over the street. The monks had come back
from their morning walk by now, and they began
ringing the temple bells, deep and slow. I was still early
for work, but my feet skipped every other step until
I finally reached the shop. Over the front window, a
cotton banner swayed gently in the morning breeze.
The words painted on the cloth read Paiyoon Wongyai,
Master Mapmaker.
I twisted my key in the front door and closed it
softly behind me. As I slipped off my shoes, I breathed
in deep. For a brief moment, the smell of the shop
filled me up and erased my hunger. It was the smell of

8
crisp new sheets of paper (stacked by me), day-old ink
(mixed by me), freshly washed wood floors (scrubbed
by me), and tangy brass instruments (polished by me).
My heart beat a little faster as I pulled open the shades.
This was my favorite part of the day.
Golden sunlight spilled into the shop, illumin-
ating the framed maps that covered the walls from
floor to ceiling. Master Paiyoon had been the Master
Mapmaker of the Mangkon Royal Navy for more than
twenty years—the entire duration of the Longest War.
He had sailed all over the known world, charting
more of it than anyone in Mangkon: the sheer cliffs
of the Hinder Range, the puzzle-piece islands of the
Padu Archipelago, the ice-clogged shores of Wilna, and
tiny, distant Matchka.
Paiyoon was the last mapmaker of his kind still
working in An Lung. He used old-fashioned mapmaking
techniques, drawing coastlines as intricate as a lace collar.
This meant that he worked slowly, but in the end, each
map was exquisite enough to hang in a museum.
Some people in An Lung said, That man would draw
the pebbles on the beach if he had a pen fine enough. Others
said, The spirits must have blessed him with the gift of far
sight. And still others said (in frightened whispers),
Stay away from that old Paiyoon. Everyone knows he sold

9
his soul to a demon in exchange for his mapmaking talent.
I liked that one the best.
The shop door creaked open behind me. I set
down the breakfast porridge and bowed as the Master
Mapmaker walked in.
“Blast it, Sai, you are always early!” He scowled at
me worse than if I had been late. His arms were full
of papers, and I rushed to help him before they all
scattered to the floor. “Windows, windows!” he chided
me. “You keep this place too stuffy!”
Master Paiyoon slipped off his jacket and tossed
it to me. He shuffled, belly out, to the counter at the
back of the shop while I cracked the windows. I heard
him groan as he bent to reach the lower cabinets. Not
exactly the image of someone who made bargains with
demons. I still hadn’t figured out how old Paiyoon was,
but his slow shuffle and his snow-white ponytail put
him at least in his seventies.
I joined him at the counter, where he had poured
the porridge into two ceramic bowls. He didn’t thank
me for getting it, just handed me my portion. I started
to take a sip.
“No, no!” Paiyoon interrupted. “You can’t eat it
like that. Here.” He reached for the spicy vinegar and
ladled two big scoops into my bowl. “Now. Eat.”

10
 “Yes, sir.”
I was used to his scolding by now, but when
I first started my Assistantship, I was sure I was about
to be fired every five minutes. It had taken me all
these months to realize that no matter how much
Paiyoon grumbled at me, my job was probably safe.
Seven months ago, when the Peace Declaration
was signed, Paiyoon did what every shop owner in
An Lung did: finally hired someone to help out. After
so many years of having to go without, the whole
city was in a rush to get back to normal business.
I had been working for one of the shrimp stalls in
the Goldhope Harbor Market and had just dropped
off a delivery on the other end of Plumeria Lane.
As I passed Paiyoon’s shop, a teenage boy burst
out the front door, his clothes covered with ink
and his face full of terror. Paiyoon chased the boy
away, shouting that he had ruined two months of
hard work with his sloppiness. Then the mapmaker
had bellowed into the street, “Doesn’t anyone around
here know how to use a blasted ink pen?”
I raised my hand. I was hired on the spot.
Paiyoon must have been desperate. Usually
Assistantships were arranged by family connections.
If he hadn’t been in such a hurry to hire someone,

11
my job would have gone to one of those stuck-up kids
I stood in line with at the café every morning. I knew
how lucky I was, but I was still ready to bolt if Paiyoon
ever started asking too many questions.
So far he hadn’t asked me any questions about
my life at all. He always paid me on time. And even
though he was as grumpy as an itchy old cat, he was
never cruel. It was the best job I’d ever had.
I raised the steaming bowl to my lips and took a
slow sip. The porridge was mushroomy, oniony, and
fishy. And, yes, I had to admit that it was better with
the spicy vinegar. If demons really did bargain for souls,
I would have sold mine to eat that porridge every day.
Master Paiyoon slurped his portion down and
wiped his fluffy mustache with his handkerchief before
reaching into his waistcoat pocket.
“Too much work to do and never enough time to
do it,” he grumbled as he shuffled to his desk. He said
this so often that I considered it his morning prayer.
He brought out a polished gold disk and, with a
quick snap of his fingers, flicked open the latch. He
swiveled the glass lens out from its case, held it up to
the light of the window, and began his morning ritual
of cleaning it. The glass had a faint golden tint to it,
and in the sunlight it glowed like a shard of amber.

12
 This was Paiyoon’s eyeglass, his most important tool.
He used it to magnify the tiny pen strokes on his map
paper, but it could also be used to see far into the dis-
tance. I’d always wanted to look through it, but I hadn’t
gotten up the courage to ask.
Paiyoon’s lineal—a long chain of squarish gold links—
ran from the eyeglass case to a clip on his waistcoat: a
much more impressive way of wearing it than a dinky
bracelet, in my opinion. I had never gotten close enough
to count the links, but there had to be at least a dozen.
Normally, he would launch right into giving me
orders for the day, but this morning he stared out
the window as he cleaned the eyeglass over and over.
I grabbed my notebook and pencil and walked closer
to his desk.
“Ahem, Master Paiyoon, shall we go over the daily
schedule? There was another delivery of boxes yester-
day, but they’re so light, I think they must be empty.
Should I send them back?”
“Hmm, what? Oh, yes, just put them in the closet
and I’ll deal with them later.”
“You still have to finish writing your lecture for the
University. We have that order for the Koh Tang maps.
And the naval secretary has asked if you can finish the
new chart of Hinmak by September.”

13
 One result of winning a war meant that all the
conquered places got new names, which was a pretty
good deal for someone in the mapmaking business.
Paiyoon curled his lip as if he’d gotten a whiff of
bad fish. “Hmmph. Waste of time. They’ll just have to
change the names back again after the next war.”
“Um, yes, sir. And I guess you do have a lot of
work on your list already.” I tapped my pencil against
my notebook. “Maybe you should focus on writing
that lecture and I could work on making the copies of
your map of Koh Tang?”
Master Paiyoon suddenly swiveled to look at me.
His eyes, which had stared blankly out the window a
moment ago, were now focused very keenly on my face.
“Make copies of my map? Do you think you could?”
I had traced copies of other people’s charts for him
before—simple things that were beneath the Master’s
skills, like a chart of the fishing channel in Pristine Bay
or a road map of some backwater province. But even
though I had been working for him for six months,
I had never been trusted to re-create one of Paiyoon’s
precious maps.
“I only thought . . . I was just trying to help, sir.”
Paiyoon stared at me the same way he had stared
out the window—as if he were trying to see past the

14
horizon. He picked up his pen and held it out to me.
“Show me.”
I looked down at the pen and then back at his
face. He was acting so strangely. Was this some kind of
test? The first rule of being an Assistant is humility. An
Assistant must never boast that they can do the work
of their Master. I swallowed my pride and cast my eyes
down at my shoes.
“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what I was thinking. Of
course that’s far beyond my skills.”
Paiyoon’s bushy white eyebrows furrowed to meet
in one line. He opened his mouth to speak, but before
he could get out a word, our doorbell jingled.
He shooed me toward the front. “That’s the post. I’m
expecting something, Sai. Quickly, quickly, to the door!”
Relieved not to be in trouble, I hurried to the front
of the shop. I swung open the door and nodded to the
delivery girl before taking the mail from her. There was
just one letter. I could tell from the thickness of the
paper that it was from someone important.
Master Paiyoon sliced through the envelope with
his penknife. I started clearing away our breakfast,
keeping my eyes on his face as he read the letter to
himself. As he scanned the paper, deep wrinkles set into
his forehead.

15
 “What does it say, sir?”
Paiyoon looked up as if he’d forgotten I was there.
“What? Oh, nothing, nothing. Just an invitation to
some frilly luncheon at the naval academy, that’s all.”
He waved the letter back and forth as though it wasn’t
important, but the wrinkles in his forehead stayed put.
He pointed to the counter behind me. “Back to
work with you,” he said gruffly. “We’ve both wasted
enough of the morning.”
As I set to work washing out the inkwells from
the day before, I snuck a glance at old Paiyoon. He sat
back in his chair, flicking the eyeglass in and out of its
gold case, staring at the drawer where he had placed
the envelope.
That letter was no luncheon invitation. Paiyoon
might have been the Master Mapmaker, but when it
came to lying, I was the expert.

16
chapter three
The Prize

I t was Friday, payday, so I shut the door to Master

Paiyoon’s shop with money weighing down my
apron pocket. I walked down Plumeria Lane and lin-
gered for a while around the bakeries at the bottom of
the hill, looking into the shop windows and imagining
blowing my entire week’s pay on one box of doughy
egg cakes wrapped in jasmine-scented paper. It would
almost be worth it.
The sun had begun to set, which usually made
everyone in the Paper District hurry: hurry to close
up shop, hurry to put out the lamps, hurry to lock
the door so they could hurry home to other people
hurrying home to meet them.
But this evening was different. Instead of packing
up their stores and rushing off to their families and hot
dinners, people milled around, huddling together and
whispering. I walked as close as possible to listen in,
but I could catch only snatches of conversation:
“. . . a huge waste of money if you ask me!”
“But you can’t put a price tag on glory . . .”
“You mark my words: one of those ships is looking
for the Sunderlands. And when they find them,
Mangkon will be the envy of the world.”
Sunderlands?
What in the world was everyone talking about? I
could buy a newspaper and find out, but I hated the
thought of parting with even a half-lek of my wages.
Instead, I headed west, away from the proper lanes of
the Paper District and closer to Goldhope Harbor.
Here, restaurants and food carts lined the waterfront,
which was always crowded now that the War was over.
I ducked around the back of a stall that sold roasted
duck legs. Greasy wads of newspaper filled the trash
bin in the alley. I picked through it until I could find
a front page of the Mangkon Times that wasn’t com-
pletely soaked in duck fat. I shook it clean and read as
I walked on.

HER ROYAL MAJESTY Queen

Siripatra announces the Expedition Prize,

18
 a venture to extend the boundaries and
glory of the Kingdom of Mangkon. The
Queen has commissioned Her Royal
Navy’s finest ships for the expeditions.
Captained by the heroes of the Longest
War, these ships shall sail for all corners of
the globe to claim new lands in Her name.
Her Royal Majesty has directed four of
Her best captains to set their sights for
the Deepest Sea in the NORTH, the lands
EAST of the Hinder Range, WEST past
Rotan, and to break the fiftieth parallel in
the SOUTH. Each captain who returns
with a map of their discoveries shall be
awarded a purse of 100,000 leks.

One hundred thousand leks! My head swam at the

number. Mangkon must have done better in the War than
I thought. I knew the names of the destinations from the
maps hanging in our shop. Master Paiyoon had charted
those places, but only barely. It was as if the Queen were
sending her ships out to the very borders of his maps and
ordering them to peek past the edges of the paper.
But there was no mention in the newspaper of
the Sunderlands, despite what the people in the street

19
were saying. And why would there be? That place was
a myth. I combed through my memory for the few
scraps of stories I had heard about it.
It was a continent floating on the back of a giant
whale deep in the southern seas.
Or was it a group of islands, rooted to the ocean
floor like a mangore tree?
It was covered in icy mountains.
Or was it smothered by steamy jungle?
Home to spirits.
Home to dragons.
That last one was the story that everyone knew,
because it was the story of Mangkon itself. Long ago,
dragons swam along the shores of the Nine Islands.
We were a landbound people back then, with no
knowledge of the sea. The dragons took pity on us and
taught us how to make boats and ride the waves. They
herded sardines right into our fishermen’s nets. Soon
our people began to thrive, and there weren’t enough
fish in our seas to feed a growing kingdom and a pod
of giant sea serpents.
It was time for the dragons to move on. Before
they departed, they left us one final gift: a golden egg.
When it hatched, out popped a baby girl who grew
up to become the first Queen of Mangkon. As for the

20
dragons, they all swam down south and found a new
home: the Sunderlands. No one had ever seen these
lands, but they must have been a paradise, because
the dragons never came back. Sailors even called the
fiftieth parallel the Dragon Line, because no one had
crossed it except the great serpents of old.
There were some folks who actually believed those
stories, who swore they could show you the cave
where their great-great-granddad had found a giant
nest full of dragon eggshells. But most respectable
people knew it was all just myths and bedtime stories.
That made it even more surprising to hear anyone on
proper Plumeria Lane talking about the Sunderlands
seriously. Maybe more people believed in bedtime
stories than I knew.
I was so lost in thoughts of dragons and ships and
queens that I hadn’t realized the sun had nearly sunk and
I had left the streets of downtown An Lung far behind
me. I tossed the newspaper into the gutter, then gave my
head a shake to clear it. I had reached the Western Gate
of our city. Beyond this point, the streetlamps thinned
and the roads became muddy footpaths. I stopped to
stare up at the gateway, just as I did every evening.
In the center of the gateway’s arch was a wooden
carving of a coiled dragon. Its slender body formed

21
a perfect circle, and it held its tail clamped in its own
jaws. That same symbol was engraved on all our coins
and delicately stamped onto each link in every lineal
in the nation.
The image graced our flag as well, which also
included our kingdom’s motto: The Tail Is the Teeth.
That one little sentence held a book’s worth of
meaning. It meant that the end was connected to
the beginning. It meant that where you ended up
depended on where you started. It meant that each
person was one link in a lineal that went around and
around in a never-ending circle, just like the dragon
with its tail in its mouth.
Good little Mangkon children were taught to say
the royal motto whenever we walked through one of
our city’s gates, as a reminder that we are the living
links to our past.
I stared up at the wooden dragon, my lips shut
tight. And then I walked into the darkness, heading for
home.

22
chapter four
The Fens

P ast the Western Gate, the solid streets of An Lung

became mud, and then even the mud disappeared,
melting into the marshy waterways of the Fens. The
only way to get across the swamp was either by boat
or along the floating bamboo walkways that snaked
through the tall reedy grass.
The bamboo bridge swayed from side to side as
I jogged across it. My ears pricked up and my eyes
scanned my surroundings. I held one fist around the
coins in my pocket so they wouldn’t jingle. I needed
to hurry and get out of my nice clothes.
The Fens were what was left of the marshland at
the mouth of the River Hama. Way back before that
mythical queen popped out of her golden egg, this was
where Mangkon began. Centuries ago, it was probably
a nice place to start a civilization. Our people built
their homes on rafts that drifted among the reeds and
lotus blossoms. They let their babies nap in floating
baskets tied to lily pads while they fished for paper-
skin shrimp.
No one let babies float in the water now unless
they didn’t want them back. Once we dammed the
River Hama to bring fresh water into the city, the
Fens became too salty for anything but the mangore
trees. The people beat them back with machetes and
hammers every year, but while we slept, they crept
toward us on their roots. Every kid who grew up in
the Fens was told to stay out of the water or the man-
gores would pull them under and drink their blood.
One benefit of those creepy stories was that no one
was going to go poking their noses around mangore
roots looking for money.
I followed my usual route along the maze of creaky
walkways. It was still early enough in the evening that I
didn’t see anyone other than the odd fisherman wrestling
with his trap of slurpy eels. But you never knew who you
might run into in the Fens, so I hurried on until I got to
the old mangore whose roots held my hiding spot.
After checking over my shoulder, I slipped off
my shoes and tucked them into my apron. I climbed

24
off the walkway and onto the roots, clutching them
with my toes. Ugly scars crossed the tree’s thick trunk,
making it easy to grip. On the far side of the tree, I was
hidden from sight. A deep crevice in the trunk held a
rice sack where I kept my regular clothes.
Getting changed was the tricky part. The mangore
had thick, sturdy roots, but one slip and I’d end up in
the black water.
It was nearly dark now, so I worked by feel to
change out of my stiff clothes and into my tattered
pants and tunic. As I folded up my Assistant’s uniform
and put the clothes away, I cringed to think about how
much money I could get if I sold it. But it was out of
the question. I couldn’t make money in the first place
unless I dressed the part.
I braced my shoulder against the mangore, reached
my hand deep into the crevice, and pulled out the
square candy tin that held my money. I let it bounce in
my palm. It was deliciously heavy, but even after half a
year of saving, still not heavy enough.
This had been a one-of-a-kind year. As twelve-
year-olds, all Assistants in An Lung were on equal
footing (or at least we pretended to be). But the little
differences in our status—the type of shoes we wore,
the number of sweets we could buy at the candy

25
shop—would soon give way to the glaringly obvious
ones as we began turning thirteen and starting school.
The wealthy among us would go to private con-
servatories. Middle-class kids would go to public
academies. I couldn’t afford either one. Some schools
gave scholarships to good families who fell on hard
times. But of course that required a lineal as proof that
you were a worthy investment.
How long would Master Paiyoon let me keep
working in his shop? I couldn’t pretend to keep being
twelve forever. He’d eventually ask me why I hadn’t
started school, or why I didn’t have my lineal yet.
I wouldn’t be able to lie about my situation much
longer. And then people would start to whisper. The
Master Mapmaker has a Fens rat as his Assistant? It would
be too embarrassing for him. Too embarrassing for me.
Without Paiyoon, without a diploma, and with no
lineal to help dazzle my way through a job interview,
the best I could hope for was to go back to the Harbor
Market and deliver shrimp for the rest of my life.
I shook my head to banish the thought, swishing
my hair hard enough that my braid slapped my eyes.
The money in my tin couldn’t get me into school, but
I had started to believe it might at least get me out of
the Fens. Ferryboats left the harbor all the time for

26
the other eight islands. I could buy a ticket to snowy
Koh Tang, or Koh Soolin, where I could get a job on a
pretty little farm, somewhere no one knew me. Good
luck had shone on me with my Assistantship; maybe it
would shine on me again.
The last light in the sky was fading. Time to stop
daydreaming. I counted out fifteen leks from my wages
and put the rest in the tin before sliding it back into
place.
The sky was black by the time I tiptoed back to the
walkways and made my way to Down Island, the Fens’
one plot of solid land. Once, I’d heard the other Assistants
say that people from the Fens smelled bad because Down
Island used to be Mangkon’s trash heap, but they were
wrong. I had checked. I’d spent an entire Sunday down a
back alley, digging a deep hole, and all I ever found was
dirt and water. Besides, I didn’t smell bad.
Tall wooden buildings crowded one another for
space, creating a warren of tight alleys. Doors on either
side of me began to swing open, and I heard the usual
sounds of the island waking up for the night: squid fisher-
men’s boots thudding toward their boats, the clink of
the bottle collectors’ bags.
The thumping of piano keys meant I was nearing
the Rooster Room. The glow from a fire lit up the

27
bar’s windows. Inside, customers howled the words to
a popular drinking song. On the front steps, a group of
men squatted around a dice game.
I walked a little closer, scanning their faces. But the
person I was looking for wasn’t there. A boy wearing
a rumpled cap looked up and locked eyes with me.
A jagged scar trailed from underneath the cap to the
middle of his eyebrows. Startled, I took a step back,
and the coins in my pocket clattered.
Mistake.
I turned and hurried away, hoping no one else had
heard. But footsteps sounded behind me, matching my
stride. I cut around a corner and slipped into a long
alley. I counted a hundred paces, then glanced over my
shoulder. The boy with the cap had turned the corner
after me. He was just a kid, but almost twice my size,
with broad, thick shoulders. He must have heard the
jingle of money in my pocket. I was close to home
now, but I didn’t dare run.
I turned another corner, then quickly ducked into a
doorway. As I flattened myself against the door, the boy
passed by. I waited for him to disappear down the alley
before stepping back out. I peered ahead into the
alley but didn’t see him.

28
 Suddenly, I felt the darkness stir behind me.
Before I could run, thick arms encircled my body.
They pinned my biceps to my ribs, squeezing the air
from my lungs.
“All your money. Now,” demanded a gruff voice.
A surge of panic rolled through my stomach. My
reflexes kicked in. I flapped my elbows like wings,
forcing the boy’s grip to slide up to my shoulders.
Before he could tighten his hold on me, I dropped
to a squat at his feet. I reached through my legs and
grabbed his ankle. I sat back against his leg hard,
throwing all my weight onto his kneecap. He cried
out as he lost his balance and crashed to the ground.
I was already into a sprint when I heard a familiar
hoarse laugh behind me.
“Ha-ha! Just like I showed ya!” Coughs and more
rough laughter rose from the dirt. “That’s how a small
girl brings a big man down! You do that move better
’n me, Sai-girl!”
I whirled around. The blood still pumped in my
ears, and it took me a second to find my words. It
wasn’t the boy after all.
“Mud,” I said, panting. “I should’ve known that
was you.”

29
 The man rubbed his leg as he called into the
shadows. “Hear that, Catfish? The girl oughta be
thanking me for teaching her to protect herself, but I
don’t even get a hello. How’s that for manners?”
A small man in a tattered jacket stepped out
from behind a pile of crates. He clucked his tongue.
“Kids today are spoiled as old pumpkins. It’s a real
disgracement.”
An acid taste rose in my mouth when I saw Catfish.
I knew why he was here. I almost turned around and
walked away from them. But now my adrenaline
was gone and I felt completely drained. I needed to
sit down. Wearily, I followed Mud and Catfish up a
wooden staircase to the second floor of our building.
Halfway up, I patted my hip. I gasped and reached into
my pocket. It was empty.
Mud turned to me, laughing. He held out a hand
full of coins and winked. “Still got my touch. Let’s get
home, Sai.”

30
chapter five
New Business

H ome” was a one-room apartment in the oldest

section of Down Island. A single lantern cast
wavering shadows onto the yellow papered walls.
Catfish settled himself at our table in the corner, grin-
ning with his awful teeth. Mud limped to his seat and
pulled out a chair for me. I wondered if I’d hurt his
bad leg during our tussle in the street. Well, if I had,
that was his fault, not mine.
He spread out the coins he’d picked from my
pocket. Normally, payday put him in a good mood.
I’d usually get a couple nights of him cheerful and
chatty, at least until the money I gave him ran out. But
tonight he eyed me suspiciously.
“Where were you last night?” he asked. “And don’t
tell me you came home late, ’cause I was here and you
never showed up.”
 I swallowed my surprise. The night before, I’d snuck
back into Master Paiyoon’s shop after closing and slept
under my desk. I’d done it specifically because I knew
there was a kickboxing match in the Fens. Mud never
missed those, and afterward he usually stayed at the bar
till dawn.
“Me and the other shrimp girls snatched some
fireworks from the docks,” I said. “We stayed out all
night setting them off.”
Mud grunted approvingly. Still, his red-rimmed
eyes searched mine. I held his gaze but wondered how
much he suspected. It would take only one visit to
the Harbor Market and a little questioning to find out
I had left that job months ago. Lucky for me, Mud’s
injured leg and criminal record kept him out of all the
respectable sections of An Lung. He rarely ventured
farther than the Rooster Room these days.
I wish I could say that Mud was my stepfather, or
an uncle, or anyone else besides what he really was.
But you only had to look at us together to know that
wasn’t true. I was my father’s spitting image, down to
the inky-black flecks in our brown eyes. Only our
hands were different. Mud had big, blocky fists—not
what you’d expect from someone who could pick

32
your pocket clean before you drew a breath. I must
have inherited my slender fingers from my mother.
Mud stacked the coins and counted them again.
“You’re wasting yourself working that shrimp job.
You could get something better. Something that pays
decent.”
“Don’t scold the child,” said Catfish. He smiled at
me and patted the top of my hand. His yellow teeth
overlapped one another like a fanned-out deck of
cards. “Your current employment won’t be of no con-
sequence much longer, my dear Sai. The three of us
shall soon be sitting in the lap of luxury. We’ve got us
a plan, envisaged by your father and to be carried out
by my good self.”
Mud rolled his eyes at Catfish’s flowery language.
“It’s a job. Best one I’ve come up with in a long time.
Show her.”
Catfish opened the brass buttons of his jacket and
rummaged inside one of the pockets. He still wore his
Navy uniform proudly, even though he’d spent most
of the War locked up for selling rations on the shadow
market. He pulled out a packet of crumpled documents
and handed me a scrap of newspaper. It was an obituary
notice. Apparently, a Navy captain had passed away last

33
week one city over, in An Song. From the list of titles
and properties, he must have been rich as a lord.
Catfish pointed down to the paper. “This captain
was a true hero. Fought in the Battle of One Hundred
Ships. Every officer who survived that battle donated
their armor to the Mangkon War Museum.”
“So what?” I said.
“So,” said Mud, “his armor’s still in the museum.
Now the War’s over, Navy battle armor brings in a real
nice price on the shadow market. One of the captain’s
close family friends really should go to the museum
and bring such a valuable heirloom home.”
Catfish licked his jutting teeth and put both hands
over his heart. “That’s where I come in. Yes, indeed,
I was a true bosom friend of the dearly departed
captain.” He pretended to wipe a tear from the corner
of his eye. “The least I could do for my dead compatri-
arch is to fetch up his armor and carry it home to his
wife and children.”
I rolled my eyes. “And who in their right mind
would believe a story like that?”
“That’s where you come in,” said Mud. “Catfish is
goin’ to show up at the museum with a letter from his
dear old naval friend that gives permission for Catfish
to take the armor home to An Song.”

34
 And now we came to it. A forgery job.
Catfish was beaming. “When Mud came up with
this plan, I said to him, Mud, this is pure perfection.
Your daughter’s the greatest forgery artist the Fens has
ever known.”
An artist? That was going a little far. I had helped
Mud and Catfish with dozens of schemes over the
years, writing hot checks or forging letters to our
landlords from fake aunts who promised so sweetly to
pay our rent if we could just keep on living there. But
this job was much bigger than anything I had done
before. Impersonating a decorated Navy officer to
steal a valuable heirloom? My palms were sweating at
the thought of it.
“Where’s the sample?” I asked Catfish.
“Sample?”
I bugged my eyes out, exasperated. “The sample of
the captain’s handwriting. The thing I’m supposed to
forge.”
Catfish scratched his head with one fingernail.
“Well, now, it turns out that a handwriting sample has
been a little complicating to acquire.” Mud made a low
growling sound in his throat. Catfish quickly added,
“But it don’t matter! The museum don’t know what
the captain’s handwriting looks like. You just need to

35
write ’em a letter that’s nice and fancy, use the words
fancy people like to use.”
Relief ran through me. I sat back in my chair. “I’m
sorry, but I can’t do it. I can’t write a letter like that out
of thin air.”
Mud’s nostrils flared. “What was the point of
sending you to that teacher if you can’t even write a
simple letter?”
The Fens had one school, and it was shut down
more than it was open. The kids who did learn to read
and write had patchwork educations. When I was nine,
Mud had paid an old widow who lived at the edge of
Down Island to tutor me. She was supposed to teach
me all the subjects, but the only thing I remember was
writing. The old lady was obsessed with penmanship
and made me copy row after row of letters for hours.
If I didn’t copy them perfectly, she’d pinch the top of
my hand with her yellow fingernails. I was so relieved
when Mud couldn’t afford to send me to her anymore.
But in our short time together, I had developed flaw-
less script and could copy anyone’s letters.
I had also learned that Mangkon’s strict social rules
extended even to handwriting.
“It’s not going to work,” I explained to Mud.
“Rich people like that captain would use a very formal

36
alphabet for something like this. It’s not the same way as
normal people write. I could copy it if I had a sample,
but it’s too complicated to just make it up.”
“Can’t be that different,” said Catfish. “Just words
on paper. Make it look proper and no one will know.”
I snorted, thinking of the Assistants I waited in line
with every morning, who knew from one glance at
your hair ribbons whether you belonged or not. “Trust
me: it won’t work.”
Catfish tried to put on a sweet smile, but it just made
him look slimier. “Sai-Sai, come on, now. I’ve been here
for you since you was a little girl, and now I need your
help. You wouldn’t want to cheat your old uncle out of
his share of eight hundred leks, would you?”
Eight hundred leks! Was that really what someone
would pay for a rusted suit of metal? I looked at Mud,
who was drumming his fingers nervously on his thigh.
My father was not a nervous sort of man. Something
wasn’t right. I never liked any of Mud’s plans, but I
liked this one least of all.
“Please, Sai-Sai?” Catfish mewed. “Just one itty-
bitty letter?”
Mud would never force me to do this job. I could
always tell him no.
But I wouldn’t, and he knew it.

37
 “Fine. I’ll try,” I said.
Catfish clapped his hands. “That’s our girl! And I
can get you a letter to copy. I got a lady friend in the
post office, and I’ll just—”
“No, thanks,” I said. Knowing Catfish, he’d pick
the wrong thing and get caught in the process. “I’ll
figure something out on my own.”
Mud was looking at me, and the relief on his face
gave me a hint at why he had been so grim. He needed
this money badly. He probably had debts, as always.
“How long will it take?” he asked.
“I’ll need a couple days.”
“Perfect—two days it is!” said Catfish. “That’s great,
ain’t it, Mud?”
“Great,” he said flatly.
Catfish licked his lips as he made for the door.
“Excellent. All right, chum, shall we raise a glass to
commemorize this new line of business? Come
along—the Rooster Room beckons!”
Mud scooped up my coins from the table and slid
them into his pocket. He lingered in the doorway
without meeting my eyes. “Just this one job, Sai.
Then we’ll have enough to get back on our feet again.
You’ll see. Things’ll change.”

38
 I didn’t answer, and he left without shutting the
door.
I waited until they were gone, then I flopped down
on my pallet on the floor and stared up at our water-
stained ceiling. It hovered low over my face, and the
walls were close enough that I could smell the mil-
dewed paper.
Just this one job. How long had I been hearing that?
But Mud was right about one thing. Things were
going to change.
The Tail Is the Teeth.
I had heard those words all my life. They meant
that no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t
escape who you were or where you came from. But
they couldn’t be true. I wouldn’t let them be true.
I would find a way to leave it all behind, even if it
meant I had to bite off my own tail to do it.

39
chapter six
Expedition Fever

I needed a letter.
I spent the weekend sneaking by mailboxes and
swiping whatever I could find inside. It was no good,
though. The types of houses whose mailboxes might
contain what I was looking for were locked behind
high copper gates or guarded by snooty doormen. If
only I could have gotten close, I could have taken what
I needed. The city was certainly distracted enough that
no one would have noticed.
All of An Lung had caught Expedition Fever. Old
Grandmother Noom had been wrong about us going
to war, but she had been right about the hammers.
Even all the way in the Fens, you could hear them
clanging in the harbor as they converted the king-
dom’s warships to vessels of exploration. Though it
was the weekend, when businesses should be closed,
door chimes jingled nonstop as messengers delivered
official royal orders for this or that. Bankers gleefully
drew up loans, and accountants even more gleefully
calculated the taxes. Everyone was in a rush, hurrying
to get the ships ready and loaded in two weeks—in
time for the Queen’s birthday, the day she’d send her
ships out across the globe.
Time was running out for me, too. Sweat soaked
the back of my shirt as I tromped through the city,
searching for a mailbox I hadn’t tried yet. The August
heat had arrived overnight, evaporating all the rain
that had seeped into the ground during the previous
months, making the streets steam like boiled prawns.
Mud was home when I got there Sunday night.
“Did you find one?” he asked before I could even
get through the door.
“Not yet,” I grumbled, heading straight to my mat
in the corner of the room.
“It’s all right—you will,” he said with forced cheer-
fulness. “If you need more time, just say the word.
Catfish is itching to go, but he can wait a little longer.”
I flopped onto my mat without a reply.
Mud scooted a chair closer. He cleared his throat.
“Listen, Sai, I know you don’t like doing this. I don’t

41
like asking you to do it. But this won’t be like other
times. It’s enough money to make a difference. With
four hundred leks, we could move out of here. We
could get a nice place.” He smiled a half-smile. “Your
birthday’s coming soon.” I looked up at him, and his
smile spread to his eyes, crinkling them at the corners.
“Don’t you worry, I didn’t forget. You’ll be thirteen
this year. With this kind of money, I could get you a
lineal.”
I felt my eyebrows lift.
“That’s right,” he went on. “And I wouldn’t just get
one link, either. I’d get you a whole bracelet. I know a
guy. He makes them in his blacksmith shop, and they
look perfectly real. He even does the royal stamp and
everything.”
I dug my fingers into my mat. Of course Mud
“knew a guy.” The punishment for buying a fake lineal
was prison, but that didn’t bother him. What was I
expecting? That he’d save up for a real one? Take me
downtown to the Hall of Records to get it stamped
by the Lineage Council? They’d probably laugh in our
faces, anyway.
“I don’t want
ant a lineal,” I said.
Mud’s face fell, leaving only the scrap of a smile on
his lips. “I know. They’re stupid. I hate ’em. But still,

42
every kid in Mangkon needs one if they’re gonna get
ahead—”
“I don’t need a lineal,” I spat. I knew I should hold
my tongue, but I was fuming—from my frustration,
from the heat, from our tiny, cramped room. “I won’t
need one because I plan on being a lowlife con just
like my father!”
Mud shot to his feet, fists tight at his side. I stayed
exactly where I was. I wasn’t afraid of him. I’d seen
him get in fights before, but I knew he would never
lay a finger on me.
Every muscle in his body tensed, then sagged again.
He rubbed his leg, and his face became a stony block
I couldn’t read. “I know what you think of me, Sai.
You think you’re so much better than me. Well, maybe
you’re right. But I’m still a part of everythin’ you are,
like it or not.”
He limped to the door. The walls of the room
shook when he slammed it behind him.
I balled my hands and pressed them to my temples.
I was so angry, my eyes were blurry. I hated our horrid
stinking room. I hated slimy Catfish. I hated Mud and
his never-ending crooked plans.
I had to get out of there. If I stayed, there would
always be a new scheme, and I would always get

43
dragged down into it. Even if Mud and Catfish got
lucky and one of their cons worked, it wouldn’t last.
We could live in a palace and there would always be
something rotting in the corner.
I would finish this job and then I’d be out. I shut
my eyes and let out a long, slow breath. I had spent the
weekend looking for a letter from a stranger to copy,
but it wasn’t working. Maybe I had known all along
that it wouldn’t work, and I just didn’t want to admit
that I only had one real option. If I was going to forge
a letter, there was one place to get it.
I would have to go to the shop.

44
chapter seven
An Honest Start

M onday morning, I slipped out of the apartment

long before dawn, tiptoeing past Mud, who
lay snoring near the door, fully dressed with his shoes
on. He and Catfish must have had a big night at the
Rooster Room.
As I jogged down the bamboo walkways, the Fens
were sleepy and still, with a thin mist hanging over
the black water. Something shiny slapped the surface,
startling me and nearly making me slip.
Calm down—it’s just an eel.
But I couldn’t shake that jumpy feeling as I changed
into my Assistant’s uniform. I tried to tell myself that I
was still anxious after being followed by that boy the
other night, but I knew that wasn’t the only reason.
I hurried into An Lung, taking the shortcut along
the hill that overlooked Goldhope Harbor. Sunlight
had started to seep over the horizon, and I could see
the four ships down below, clustered like a herd of
fat-bellied seals. Workers were already busy down on
the docks, hammering, painting, hoisting, racing to
make them ready on time.
I was breathless by the time I got to the shop and
lit the lamp on Master Paiyoon’s desk. All night I had
been thinking of the letter that had come on Friday,
the one that had seemed to disturb Paiyoon so much.
I hadn’t seen the return address, but I remembered
the thick paper of the envelope and the formal seal. It
might even have been sent from someone in the Navy,
which would have been the perfect thing to copy for
Mud’s plan. But when I slid open the desk drawer,
there was no envelope inside.
I was almost relieved. I had given it my very best
shot, and it just hadn’t worked out. But then I saw
a piece of paper tucked beneath the sketches on the
desk. It was a letter written by Master Paiyoon. He
must have started it on Friday and not mailed it yet.
I held up the letter and scanned it. He had written
in the very formal, swooping script that upper-class
Mangkon people used only for special occasions. I
stood staring at the letter, biting my lip. There was no
way around it. This was exactly what I needed.

46
 I took Paiyoon’s letter to my own desk and pulled
out a fresh sheet of paper. My plan was to make a
quick copy that I could take home to use as a model
for Catfish’s fake letter for the museum. I would worry
about what to say later.
I soon lost myself in the work. The contents of
the letter were boring: it was basically a long-winded
thank-you to some old admiral. But Master Paiyoon
had a beautiful script that made even the boring
words interesting. Each character was like a work of
art in itself. As much as I hated helping Mud with his
schemes, I did love the actual forgery. Watching my
hand form words that weren’t mine made me feel like
I was someone else, and there was nothing better than
being someone else.
My first copy was good, but I wanted to do it a
second time to make sure I got the characters perfect.
I had the hang of Paiyoon’s looping style now, and I
loved the feeling of my pen making the strokes. I was
enjoying myself—too much, as it turned out.
The bells in the Temple of Nine Islands gonged
the hour. Seven o’clock.
Breakfast!
I needed to fly if I was going to make it to the
Three Onions Café and back before Paiyoon arrived.

47
 Hurriedly, I began cleaning up, but my inkpot
tipped over, and a stream of jet-black ink dribbled off
the edge of my desk and onto the floor. I grabbed a
rag and was still wiping up the spill when I heard the
key click in the front door.
When Paiyoon saw me, his jaw dropped. “Sai?
What in the world are you . . . ? Blast it, girl! You are
always here so early!”
I stood up and tried to hide the desk with my body.
“I’m so sorry, sir . . . I just, well, I thought I would drop
off my things before going to get breakfast…”
He hung up his coat and set down his leather satchel.
“I was sure I would beat you here this morning,” he
grumbled. “I’d swear you slept in the shop if I didn’t
know better.” His hands moved over the surface of his
desk, searching for something and not finding it. He
looked up at me. “What is that you’re working on?”
My heart plummeted to my knees as he shuffled
toward my desk. I couldn’t think, let alone make my
mouth form words. I had no choice but to step aside
and let him see.
He picked up his letter off my desk. His eyes grew
wide when he saw my copy. He picked it up too and
held both letters side by side. “You did this?” he asked.

48
 I could hear the shock and accusation in his voice,
and it made me want to crawl into a hole. “I . . . I have
been trying to improve my handwriting, sir. I wanted
to be ready for school when I start, and . . . I think
your script is so nice, and . . .”
It was the worst lie I had ever told—so obviously
untrue that I couldn’t even finish it.
Master Paiyoon seemed not to have heard me.
“Unbelievable,” he murmured, flipping the pages back
and forth. “I cannot tell these two apart. I don’t even
know which is my own.” He lowered the papers and
spun around to face me. “How long have you known
how to do this?”
“I’ve . . . always had a talent for copying things, sir.”
Paiyoon’s eyebrows pressed together, and he eyed
me as he had on Friday, as if I were a window he was
trying to see through. “I have never seen anyone who is
able to do this so flawlessly. Can you only copy script?”
I swallowed. “If I have something to follow I can
copy anything almost exactly.”
Not almost, I thought. Exactly.
Paiyoon did something strange then. Without
looking away from me, he took the golden eyeglass
from his pocket and held it up between us. I’d never

49
seen him use it to look at a person before. His eyeball
seemed enormous magnified through the pale glass. It
might have made me laugh if I hadn’t been so worried,
and if he hadn’t stared at me so seriously, his eye roving
over me like a blackbird’s.
Paiyoon lowered the eyeglass and nodded, as if he’d
found something he had been searching for.
He pulled out the stool at my desk and pointed to
it. “Sit.”
This was it. End of my job. End of Mud’s scheme.
Maybe Paiyoon would even call the police on me. I
should have started for the door, but I was too ashamed
to move.
Paiyoon pulled a stool next to mine and sat. He let
out a deep breath and crossed his arms over his chest.
Wonderful. Not only was I about to get fired, I was
going to get a lecture to go with it.
But Paiyoon had no lecture for me. His usual gruff-
ness had softened slightly, and he seemed tired more
than angry. “Sai, I am about to leave on a long journey.
Have you heard of the fiftieth parallel?”
I looked up at him. “The Dragon Line?”
Paiyoon waved his fingers in front of his face and
rolled his eyes. “Not the bedtime stories. I mean the
actual place.” He reached into his pocket and pulled

50
out a small piece of clipped newspaper. It was the
announcement about the Expedition Prize from the
article in the Mangkon Times that I had read a few days
before.
Suddenly, everything clicked. The Expedition
Prize, the reason empty packing boxes kept arriving at
the shop, the mysterious envelope, and the thank-you
letter to the admiral in the Navy. Mangkon was getting
ready to send boats out to map the world. Of course
the country’s most celebrated mapmaker would be on
board one of them. What a convenient time to fire his
Assistant.
“You were given a place on the southbound
expedition,” I said flatly. “Congratulations, sir.”
His eyes cut from the newspaper to me. “Wrong,”
he said with a huff. “I wasn’t asked to join the expedi-
tion. Quite the opposite, in fact.”
He stood up and started pacing in front of me. His
mouth opened to speak and then snapped shut again.
Finally, he sat down with a weary sigh. For the life of
me, I had no idea where this conversation was going.
“The Queen’s Council thinks I’m too old,” he said
quietly. “I’m past my prime, and this expedition will
be all about youth. The heroes of the War are captain-
ing the ships. You should see the crews—hardly more

51
than toddling babies. The captain of the west-going
ship still wears her hair in pigtails! I had to pull every
string, call up every old friend. I did everything short
of begging on my knees to ask for a position on that
southbound ship.”
I could not imagine my cantankerous employer
begging for anything, much less on his knees. “And
they granted you a place?”
He raised one eyebrow and nodded. “They did.
Finally. And now I find myself in a terrible situation.
Because you see, they are right, Sai. I am too old.”
He picked up a pen from my desk and began to
draw a line on a sheet of paper. His fingers trembled.
He set his mouth tight and gripped the pen, con-
centrating. It only made the shaking worse. The line
snaked in a zigzag.
I looked from the wobbly line on the paper to the
perfect maps lining the walls. “But your work . . . the
maps . . .”
Paiyoon set his pen down and rubbed his fingers
with his other hand. “The tremor began almost a year
ago, before you started working for me. I take injec-
tions each morning to calm the shaking. I thought
I could bring enough to last the entire voyage, but my
doctor neglected to inform me that they expire. The

52
first week out at sea and I’ll be wobbling too hard to
hold a pen. The point of the expedition is to make a
map. I can’t make one if I can’t even draw a straight
line.” He leaned back on the stool and looked squarely
into my eyes. “But perhaps fortune has thrown me
one last coin. Given what I have seen here, I think
you could fill in for what I lack. I could teach you
everything. I’ll help you take all the readings, make all
the measurements. I’ll check all your work. You would
only have to draw and write for me. And you can even
do it in my handwriting. No one will know.”
My brain felt full of seawater. Was I really hearing
him right? “I . . . I . . .”
A worried look spread across Paiyoon’s face. He
shook his head apologetically. “Oh, my goodness, what
was I thinking? I can’t ask you to lie for me. You’re just
a child.”
“How long is the journey, sir?”
Master Paiyoon frowned. “We may be gone for
a year. More if we get waylaid for some reason. Oh,
blast, this was a foolish idea. This is far too dangerous
to even bring up.”
A year away from Mud and Catfish. A year away
from the Fens. I had been saving my money for a ticket
away from my life, and here was a free ride.

53
 “You’ll be starting school soon, and your parents
would never agree to it,” Paiyoon continued. “Forget I
ever mentioned it.”
“Oh, but they would, sir!” I blurted out. “I know
they would. It would bring so much honor to the
family to have me be a part of such an important
mission.”
“You’ll be thirteen soon, right?” said Paiyoon.
“You’ll miss your lineal ceremony, all those important
family moments . . .”
“My family would understand. We can delay the
ceremony until I get back. This is for the glory of our
kingdom, after all.”
Paiyoon snorted and scowled at the newspaper
article. “The kingdom is drowning in glory as it is. But
you are right. This mission is vitally important.” He
looked at me, and the weariness in his voice was gone.
His eyes were bright and fiery, and in that moment
it seemed ridiculous that anyone would claim he was
too old for anything. “This expedition is too precious
to leave to anyone else. I have to be the mapper on that
ship, but I can’t do it without help. You have been with
me for months, Sai—longer than anyone else. You’re a
hard worker and honest. I need someone I can trust.”

54
 I could count the compliments Paiyoon had given
me up to then on one hand, and guilt pricked my
stomach to hear him call me honest. “I won’t let you
down, sir. It would be an honor to serve by your side.”
Paiyoon eyed me gravely. “Sai, everyone in An
Lung is treating this expedition like it’s all for fun. But
the truth is that it could get dangerous. There’s a small
chance we won’t come back.”
That’s exactly what I was betting on. I wasn’t
coming back. Ever. A ship on an expedition would
stop at ports along the way out and on its return. I
could pick the one farthest from Mangkon, step off
with my money tin tucked under my arm, and not
look back once.
“I’m willing to take that risk, sir.”
Paiyoon tapped the pocket where he kept his eye-
glass. “Very well, but I want to speak with your parents
about it, and there is a ship’s contract they’ll have to
sign since you’re underage. Ask them to come with
you tomorrow.”
“About that.” I cleared my throat. “It’s difficult for
my father to come all the way up Plumeria Lane. What
with his back injury and all.”
“Hmm, yes, well, I suppose I could go to your—”

55
 “And the wounds.” I rubbed two fingers down my
throat. “In his neck. Ever since he came home from
the War, it makes conversation awkward, sir. I don’t
think either of my parents will have a problem with
me going. But you could write them a letter to be
sure.”
“Fine.” Paiyoon opened his desk drawer and took
out a sheet of paper with his name stamped at the top.
Luckily, he didn’t give people one-tenth the thought
he devoted to maps. “But I’m going to disclose all the
risks to them in my letter.” He wagged his finger at
me. “I won’t have us setting sail under any deception.”
“Of course not, sir. None at all.”

56
chapter eight
A Forgotten Key

N ow that I knew I’d be leaving An Lung, I had

no stomach for helping with the armor-stealing
con. So what if we lost the apartment? Or couldn’t
afford supper? I would be a thousand miles away, fat-
tening up on ship’s rations. I worried how I would tell
Mud that I wouldn’t do it, but then it turned out that
I didn’t have to. Catfish had gotten caught pretending
to be a monk gathering donations for a new temple.
He’d had to run from the police with his monk’s robes
hiked up around his knees, and now he would have to
lie low for at least a month. He was lucky not to be
in jail, though he was probably more afraid of facing
Mud’s temper than the police.
Mud’s schemes had fallen through before, but I
had never seen him this upset about it. He must have
needed the money even more than I thought. Normally,
that would have made me nervous. We’d been kicked
out of apartments before for not making the rent. But
that wasn’t my problem anymore. I would never again
have to worry about whether or not Mud could take
care of us. From now on, I would take care of myself.
I just had to hang on until our ship set sail.

The Friday before the Queen’s birthday and our

departure, Paiyoon closed the shop for the last time.
He had to attend to his house and make his personal
preparations for our long absence. We agreed that I
would meet him on Monday morning in the harbor.
Our ship was called the Prosperity, which was just one
more sign of my good luck.
“We cast off at nine,” said Paiyoon. “Plan to be
there early so there’s no chance you’ll miss it. And take
this.” He gave me a handful of coins. “It’s your pay for
this week, plus a bit extra for your parents to ease the
sting of your being gone.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said, dropping the coins into my
apron pocket. Paiyoon would be covering my room and
all my meals on board the Prosperity, which would cut
into the wages I’d be paid upon our return. But that was
fine, because I didn’t plan on lasting that long anyway.

58
“I’ll be there by dawn on our departure day, sir.”
Two and a half days until we set sail. What in the
world was I going to do with myself? I wished I could
still go in to work just to make the time go faster,
but the shop would be boarded up over the weekend.
With no other ideas, I headed back to my hiding place
in the Fens and changed into my old clothes for the
last time.
Before I left, I pulled out the wool cap and double-
woven cloak I had bought in the Harbor Market. It
cost way too much, but Paiyoon had told me it could
get cold on the deck of a ship. I smiled, imagining
myself standing on the deck of the Prosperity, warm in
my cloak while a cool sea breeze blew into the sails.
I hid the cloak again and headed for home.
In my mind I still stood on the deck of our ship
when I walked into our apartment. The door slammed
shut behind me. I whirled around to see Mud, his nos-
trils flared and his mouth pinched in anger.
“I guess you think I’m just a fool, don’t you?” he
growled.
“What are you talking about?”
Mud glowered and planted his feet in front of the
door. “I knew you were acting funny. I went down to
the Harbor Market and asked for you at the shrimp

59
stand. They said you left the job months ago! Now tell
me where you really been!”
My stomach twisted. Of all the times for Mud to
uncover my lies, why did it have to be now? I was
stupid to have come home at all. I reached into my
trouser pocket and pulled out my wages.
“Here’s two weeks’ pay. Just leave me alone.”
Mud lit up at the sight of the coins, and I knew he
was only thinking of the Rooster Room. Good. Let
him go. As soon as he was gone, I’d slip out and never
come back. I’d sleep on the streets if I had to.
“Two weeks’ pay? All of a sudden you’ve got more
money than a banker?” He grabbed the coins off my
palm, and a few of them clattered dully onto the floor.
“Hey, now, what’s this?”
My stomach dropped as Mud picked up the small
brass key. In my daydreaming I had forgotten to leave
the key to Paiyoon’s shop in my hiding place.
“Are you holding out on me, Sai?” said Mud, twist-
ing the key in the light. “If you’ve got yourself a little
treasure box to pick from, you should tell me.”
I grabbed for the key, but he held it out of reach.
“Give that back!” I shouted. “I don’t pick from a trea-
sure box. I earned those wages. Where I get them is
my business.”

60
 Veins popped out on Mud’s neck as he shouted,
“Tell me where this key is from right now!” He
stepped back from me, breathing hard. After a long
pause, he rubbed his temples and slowed his breath.
“Listen, Sai,” he said more calmly, “I’m sorry for
shouting. You just tell me where to go and I’ll do all
the work.”
“Yeah. I know what that means.”
“I need the money,” he said slowly. “Really need
it. You understand me?”
I understood, but I didn’t want to know the
details. Maybe he owed money to some Down Island
gambler. A frightened look flickered in his eyes, one I
had never seen on him before.
A part of me felt sorry for him. Why not just tell
him the truth? Once the Prosperity set sail, no one
would be watching the shop. And I had no doubt that
Mud would do a clean job of it. Besides, I’d be long
gone by then.
But something held me back. I thought about the
precious maps hanging on the walls. They’d fetch a
fortune on the shadow market. Not to mention all
the other expensive equipment. Stealing a letter from
Paiyoon was one thing, but setting up a robbery of
everything he owned was something else entirely.

61
 I backed away from Mud. “I can’t tell you. I won’t
tell you.”
“Fine,” spat Mud. He dragged his rickety chair in
front of the door and sat down. He tapped the shop
key against his thigh. “But you’re not leaving this room
till you tell me what this key unlocks. I can wait. I got
all the time in the world.”

62
chapter nine
Departure Day

I felt sure that if I just waited long enough, Mud

would have to leave our apartment at some point
before the Prosperity set sail on Monday. I tried to put
on a bored, careless attitude, while inside, my pulse
ticked like the gears of a clock.
But Mud didn’t leave. He sat in his chair in front
of the door continuously. He’d pulled our little table
in front of him, and for hours the slap of cards was
the only thing I heard as he played solitaire. Twice
each day there was a knock on the door, and Mud
went into the hallway and came back with food. Was
Catfish bringing it? Or someone else? There was no
way to know.
Mud gave me water and half of what he had to eat,
but I could barely touch the food. I felt sick. With each
passing hour, I became less and less sure that I’d find
a way to get out of that room and make it onto the
Prosperity on time.
Mud broke up the hours by telling me I could
have this or that special treat if I told him what the key
unlocked. He made scores of empty promises: We’d
leave the Fens. We’d find a place in the country. He’d
get a real job, maybe buy a small farm. Things would
be different.
I’d heard it all before. I kept my mouth shut.
But the long hours of waiting frayed my nerves.
I had strange waking dreams. Staring at Mud in his
chair, I suddenly saw myself sitting there instead. It
was me flipping the cards over and coughing hoarsely.
Then I would disappear and it would be Mud again.
I nearly gave in to him several times but always
stopped short. I still held out hope for some chance to
escape.

Darkness fell on Sunday evening and that chance still

hadn’t come. I could tell Mud’s leg was bothering him
more than usual. He rubbed it constantly. Whoever
was bringing him provisions dropped off a dinner
of fried eggs and rice. This time they also left a tall
brown bottle.

64
 “Here you go, Sai,” said Mud, sliding me the paper
box of food. The smell of the fatty eggs made my
stomach growl.
He set the bottle down in the corner of the room
farthest from his chair. His eyes flicked back and forth
from me to the corner. It was hot in our apartment,
and sweat beaded on his forehead. “I’m sick of sitting
here, aren’t you?” he said. “Just got to tell me one little
secret and we can both get out.”
I gobbled up the omelet and shook my head.
“Fine,” he spat. He stood up, sat back down, and
then stood up again with a groan. He limped to the
corner and grabbed the bottle, twisted off the cap, and
then took a swig.
He nursed it all through the night, sipping it
between card games. He started to tilt and sway in
his chair. With a soaring feeling, I began to hope my
chance had really come this time. With no windows
and no clock, it was impossible to tell what time it was
exactly, but from the noises outside, I knew it must be
the middle of the night on Sunday. I curled up on my
pallet and pretended to sleep.
I must have dozed off without meaning to. When
I opened my eyes, everything was quiet. The candle

65