Golden Gallon Port.
The slums near the Governor's Mansion.
The open space where the poor once hung their laundry was now packed with a dense crowd.
Though it was supposedly a place to dry clothes, most of what hung from the hemp ropes were rag-like scraps, barely enough to preserve anyone's privacy.
With low literacy rates, no contraception, and no other forms of entertainment, the people here made babies whenever they had nothing else to do. There were more people than clothes.
Some of the poorest survivors even had an entire family share a single robe, worn by whoever needed to go outside.
That was precisely why Asin, standing in the middle of the crowd in a clean striped shirt and rough canvas trousers, seemed utterly out of place among the paupers in old clothes—or even bedsheets.
At last, after a round of shoving, an old man with a face full of wrinkles and a waxy yellow complexion was pushed forward.
His name was Jai. He was a ratfolk, not yet sixty years old, though he looked old enough to be buried.
Then again, in the slums of Golden Gallon Port, reaching sixty really did count as old age. Most people had already lived out their entire lives before they turned forty.
Everyone on this street agreed that since Asin was a ratfolk child, it was most appropriate for a ratfolk elder to educate him.
They wanted to get three things straight.
First, what exactly had those "iron men" said to him that day? Second, where had he gotten the money for that outfit?
And the third thing, also the most important one.
What exactly did he mean by making them move out?
The old man who had been shoved to the front looked somewhat helpless, but he also knew