‘Yes-yes-yes. Nor me. Ha!’ His open mouth revealed gappy teeth, as if the rest had been knocked out. He looked no older than twenty. He was skinny for a Mongol, and the clothes he wore were filthy rags. ‘We get by, you and me.’

‘His name is Pyxeas. He’s a . . .’ Scholar. Avatak tapped his head. ‘He thinks. Better than other people.’

The Mongol shrugged. ‘Not sick?’

‘He’s just old. If you’re old you’re sick all the time.’

‘Yes-yes-yes. My father, his father, his father, the same. Safe on boat. Listen. Bayan. My name – Bayan. You want anything on the boat, you come to me. Bayan. You remember, yes-yes-yes.’

Avatak studied him. Ever since they had come to Quinsai they had been surrounded by people trying to sell them something. ‘You’re a Mongol. What’s a Mongol doing at sea?’

Bayan grinned again. ‘Never liked horses. Horses kick me. I ran away to sea, made some money. Came back, lost money, back to sea. Make more money. Ha! My bad luck, the only Mongol in the world who doesn’t like horses. You need anything, ask for Bayan. Remember.’

‘I’ll remember.’

Pyxeas was stirring. He raised one hand to point, but his fingers would not fully extend.

Avatak switched to Northlander. ‘Scholar? What is it?’

‘Our ship.’

The craft was not the largest, but big enough, Avatak thought, as Bayan rowed the length of its hull – big enough to have dwarfed the fleets that sailed from ports like Hantilios into the puddle of the Middle Sea, even most of the craft that sailed from Northland’s Wall harbours to take on the Western Ocean. And, of course, it would have utterly overshadowed the little fishing boats of Avatak’s people.

Bayan’s boat was only one of a dozen that crowded around the great ship now, bearing passengers, bales of goods, even animals. The crew worked from the top deck and leaned out of open hatchways, hauling up stuff with ropes and pulleys, or carrying it on their backs up ladders. The ship’s hull was blackened by fire and much patched; you could see the joins where whole sections had been replaced, fresh planking hammered home and sealed with greyish paste. Close to, the wooden flank smelled of deep-ingrained brine. It was not a pretty ship, like the yachts that had sailed the tame lakes of Daidu for the pleasure of the Khan’s courtiers. But Avatak felt reassured at its very roughness. This was a working vessel that had seen tough times before, and survived them; there was every chance, then, that it would survive a little longer, and its passengers along with it.