"How much for a trick?" one sailor called out, trundling toward Issari. He stank of cheap spirits, and yellow stains coated his breeches. He grabbed his groin. "I got me two coppers. I say you ain't worth one."

His smell—a miasma of urine, vomit, and fish—assailed Issari. Her head spun and she took a step back. "I . . . I'm not . . ."

. . . a prostitute, she wanted to say, but she couldn't bring the word to her lips. She had heard of such loose women, but she had thought them only tales to stop rebellious daughters from running away.

"Come on!" The drunken sailor stumbled toward her, reaching out talon-like fingers. "Let's see what's under your robes."

"Stand back, sir!" Issari said, trying to keep her voice steady, but she heard it tremble.

She took another step back, and she hit somebody. Something clattered and curses rose behind her.

Issari spun around to see a stout woman standing over a fallen tin dish. Live crabs were fleeing the vessel to run along the boardwalk.

"I'm sorry!" Issari said, kneeling to lift the animals. "Let me help—"

The woman scowled, spat out a curse so vile Issari blushed to hear it, and smacked Issari on the head.

"Watch where you're going, princess!" the woman said and slapped her again.

Princess? Issari gulped and trembled. Was her cover blown? She had disguised herself, donning a ragged old robe, hiding her raven braid under a shawl, and even caking her face with dirt. How did this woman—

"Go on, get lost, you whore!" the woman shouted and tried to smack her again.

Some relief filled Issari to realize that "princess" here was an insult, much like the others the stocky woman was now hurling her way. Issari fled, racing away from the woman, the scurrying crabs, and the drunken sailor who was busy tugging his groin while ogling the two women.

Tears budded in Issari's eyes as she moved through the crowd. She had never imagined any place like this could exist in her kingdom, let alone so close to her home. When she craned her neck and stood on tiptoes, she could even see that home—the blue and gold palace with its rooftop gardens—rising upon a distant hill. Issari had been away for only a couple of hours, but already she missed that home so badly she wanted to weep.

Making her way closer to the water, she steeled herself, rubbing her eyes and tightening her jaw.

I must be strong, she told herself. My brother needs me. I came here to save him, and I can't do that by crying or whimpering at a few smacks or taunts.

She stepped toward the edge of the canal. Many boats moored here at piers, and others sailed back and forth, entering and leaving the port. Some were the simple reed boats of fishermen, their single sails barely larger than her cloak. Others were proud, oared merchant vessels, built of sturdy wood, their hulls bedecked with paintings of the winged bull—Kur-Paz, the god of plenty. Slaves sat in them, chained to the oars, their skin bronzed in the sun. Not all were Eteerian ships; Issari saw vessels of foreign lands too. The northern barbarians sailed wide, oared cogs engraved with animal totems. Issari shivered to see these foreigners—they were gruff folk, clad in fur and leather, their beards bushy.