An idea began to form in her head. Storm God, forgive me. She wondered if her guardian deity shuddered every time she apologised, for it was a clear sign of something diabolical about to take place.

III

Mati rushed through the overcrowded bazaar where petty merchants were hawking everything from cold rum to plump parrots. Behind her, the Fat Mistress was already queuing up for the dock formalities. Ignoring the touts, she rushed to the next lane, where beggars sat, calling out improbable reasons for their disabilities and malnourished state. Mati chose the ones cursed to sit at the end of the line, by which time any philanthropist’s purse and guilt usually lightened. And there she found three worthy men. One of them was missing an arm, another limped, and the third was remarkable for his nasty boil-filled face. Perfect.

She shook the empty coin pouch in front of them as she drew them to a dark corner. When she explained her plan, the beggars cheered as if they were part of a revolution. They were all eager to do their part. Perhaps it was the excitement of crying out something else instead of the old sorry tales about the same sorry wounds. Or maybe it was the promise of gold that bought their tongues. Mati didn’t care, for her game was afoot.

IV

They were ready in their places when the Fat Mistress came up to be tied at the moorings, the patrol boat right behind her. In the crowded confusion due to the barricade, Mati softly pricked a Yavana, and then a dock agent, hoping two should suffice. She carefully placed the emptied poison dart back into her belt and gave the signal.

The beggar with the boils nodded to Mati and ran to the wharf’s edge, screaming. She had promised him a feel of her tits if he burst all his boils and he had been more than eager to oblige. Bloody pus flowed from a dozen sores on his face. The beggar with the limp screamed at the top of his voice in alarm, pointing to the pus-faced beggar. The word ‘PLAGUE!’ shrilled across the harbour like a chant. The crowd around him turned as one, as if on cue, and saw the man drowning in pus. Then their eyes went to the watchful one who had spotted the health hazard, and saw his outstretched hand pointing to the Fat Mistress. ‘PLAGUE SHIP!’ he cried with the flair of a damsel in distress as he gave the performance of his life.

People began to move back instinctively, the place echoing with fearful whispers and strange shouts. Mati emerged from the crowd, her timing faultless. ‘Look! There’s another!’ The Yavana she had pricked doubled over as if he’d been kicked in the gut. He coughed hard, forceful coughs. He took a faltering step, clutching at the nearest figure, who rudely pushed him away. The Yavana fell to the ground.

‘Stand back!’

‘It is the plague! Ocean Goddess save us!’