“Who’re you?” asked the man.

“A prisoner.” Abu smiled and shrugged, and gestured towards the boy behind him.

The smuggler frowned when he heard the prince’s accent. He turned to the boy. “Who’s this? Rich customer, eh? What does he want? You should bring him to the store. Office hours—you know better than this.” He laid a rough hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Not here. You know that.”

“He’s a Starbridge,” said the boy, trying to pull away. “Where’s the captain?”

“Starbridge,” repeated the smuggler after a pause, and Abu felt his courage flicker at the way he said it.

When the men at the table turned to look at him, he thought he had never before seen faces so hideous, limbs so distorted. Each one carried on his face or on his body the mark of some arrest. Multiple offenders lacked eyes or hands, or their necks had been broken so that they wore steel braces and had to twist their whole bodies in their chairs to look at him.

But again, there seemed more interest than malice in their stares, so Abu took heart and stepped forward into the room, and pushed his hood back from his head. The room was warm, the air thick with smoke.

The smuggler shook the boy by the arm. “Speak to me,” he hissed. “You weren’t followed here.”

“No, sir.”

“You took care?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The purge was out tonight. Didn’t you hear the whistles?”

“Yes, sir.”

“By God, you’re a fool.” He gave the boy a vicious shake and threw him down against a pile of burlap bags. “What were you thinking of?”

“No sir—please. We can use him. Please sir. Where’s the captain?”

“Use him? He’s a spy.”

“No,” said Abu. “I’m not.”

“No,” repeated the boy. “Listen to him. He says he’s not.”

“Of course he is. What else could he be?”

“He says he’s not. He can’t lie, can he? It’s against the law for him.”

“Yes, and I suppose you never broke the law, did you? Use him? You’re a fool.” The smuggler aimed a kick, but the boy twisted away. Abu laid his hand on the man’s arm.

“Don’t hurt him,” he said. “It’s my fault.”

The smuggler stared at him and pulled away with a curse. At the table, another man reached to turn the lamp up. Then he rose from his chair and stumped towards the prince, and peered up at him out of a battered face. “Starbridge,” he said. “You any relation to Scullion Starbridge?”

“Which one?”

“The magistrate here. He had my nose broken once a week for ten weeks. Broken and reset. That’s not standard punishment. That’s not scriptural. Second offense pickpocketing—that’s too hard. You any relation?”

“I suppose so. Not a close relation. Why?”

“Why? God damn you, that’s why.”

“I suppose so. I’m sorry about your nose. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry,” the man repeated, as if unsure of the word’s meaning. “Sorry, are you? God damn you for it, I say. God damn you.”