Chapter 4
Kaneko
The too-familiar sounds of a harbor filtered through the cabin walls—shouts in a dozen dialects, the creak of ropes and pulleys, the thunder of cargo being rolled across gangplanks.
After weeks at sea, we’d finally reached Bara.
I sat on the narrow bunk and tried to steady my breathing.
This was it.
Whatever fate Kichi had planned for me, it was about to unfold.
The door opened without warning, and the young sailor—the one who’d brought my meals with barely concealed hatred—stepped inside, his arms laden with fabric.
“Put these on,” he said, dumping the bundle onto the table.
I stared at the silk—rich, expensive silk in deep blue and gray, embroidered with silver thread, the kind of clothing I’d only ever seen worn by visiting nobles or wealthy merchants.
“What—”
“Just put them on.” He turned toward the door. “You have ten minutes.”
“Wait. What’s happening?”
He paused, glancing back. For a moment, something almost like pity flickered in his eyes, then it hardened. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
The door slammed shut.
I approached the table slowly, as if the fabric might bite. Instead, the silk only whispered as I lifted it, cool and impossibly smooth against my callused fingers. It slid through my hands like water, like nothing I’d ever touched before.
Indeed, it was beautiful and expensive.
For buyers to see.
My stomach turned.
After so many nights to ponder my fate, I thought I understood what was coming, but holding that silk, feeling its weight and quality, made everything real in a way my imagination couldn’t manage.
Someone would look at me wearing this and decide I was worth purchasing.
They would pay their bill and take me home like some garden tool or a sack of rice.
My hands shook as I undressed. The rough sailor’s clothes fell away, and I stood there naked, staring at the blue and gray silk. Putting it on felt like betrayal. Like I was helping them. As though by making myself more attractive for the market also made me complicit in my own sale.
But what choice did I have?
The kimono fit perfectly—clearly tailored to my frame despite not being measured.
Someone had planned this carefully, had known my size, had prepared everything in advance. I was inventory that had been ordered weeks ago.
I was tying the obi when the door opened again.
Kichi Taichou, the captain, stood in the doorway, immaculate as always, his expression pleasant and terrifying in equal measure.
“Much better,” he said, looking me over with something akin to hunger or desire tinged with contempt.
“You clean up nicely, Little Fox, just as I knew you would. If you weren’t worth so much gold, I might keep you, make you my own little ship to board whenever the urge arose. You would like that, wouldn’t you?”
I said nothing. My throat had gone too tight for words.
“It matters not. You will be sold.” He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. “We must speak before we part . . . about expectations.”
“I’m being sold. What’s there to expect?” The words came out flat.
“Yes.” He didn’t bother denying it. “To the highest bidder in one of Bara’s finest markets. You should be honored—not everyone warrants such prestigious attention.”
Honored? Had he actually said I should feel “honored”?
Fucking dragon-shit bastard.
Kichi circled me slowly. “Here is what will happen, Little Fox. You will be led to the platform. You will stand where you are told. You will not speak unless spoken to. You will not resist. You will comport yourself with dignity and grace, as though noble blood flowed in those beautiful veins, and not the sludge of a common fishmonger.” He stopped in front of me.
“Your behavior will determine what kind of master you end up with.”
What kind of master? That sent a shiver across my skin. “What do you mean?”
He didn’t so much as flinch at my discomfort.
“Buyers can tell the difference between a slave who will cause trouble and one who will be biddable. Fight, and you will end up with someone who enjoys . . . breaking spirits.” He smiled, a demented, hateful thing.
“Behave, and you might land with someone kind, someone who will treat you well.”
It was a lie, probably, but I had no way to know that for certain.
“Do you understand, Little Fox?” Kichi asked.
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
“Good. Now come. It’s time.”
The dock rocked beneath my feet.
After weeks at sea, solid ground felt too still, too steady.
My legs wobbled like a newborn calf’s as guards fell in around me.
I glimpsed the other “special cargo” being led away in different directions—the elegant woman, the man, the others, each dressed in fine clothes, each being delivered to separate fates.
I wanted to call out to them, to say something, anything, but fear and shame—and a guard’s grip—kept me silent.
The smell hit me as we left the ship. It wasn’t just salt and harbor water, but everything—rotting fish baking in the sun, human waste struggling to flow in gutters, incense smoke from a nearby temple, and underneath it all, spices I couldn’t name.
They were exotic and foreign, the scent of a city so much larger than Tooi that comparison felt absurd.
Bara was overwhelming. The docks were more crowded than my entire village, with ships of every size and design packed together like fish in a barrel.
Sailors shouted in languages I’d never heard as cargo swung overhead on ropes and pulleys.
A child darted past, nearly tripping me, before she was swallowed by the crowd.
I’d never seen so many people in my life. I’d never known so many people existed in one place.
We moved through the dock district quickly, then into what must have been the merchant quarter.
Buildings rose three and four stories tall, their facades painted in bright colors, banners streaming from windows.
The streets were paved with actual stone, not dirt, and everywhere—everywhere—there were people.
Merchants called out their wares. Beggars huddled in doorways. Palanquins rushed past, carried by sweating bearers. Women with painted faces watched from second-story windows. A few waved fans. One giggled and pointed.
My heart hammered. Sweat trickled down my spine despite the fine silk.
Then I saw it and nearly tumbled forward.
A wooden stage rose in a market square, ringed by a crowd of perhaps a hundred.
A man stood atop the stage wearing a simple but elegant black kimono, his voice carrying across the square with practiced ease.
Beside him stood a man in his forties, emaciated, barely able to remain upright.
His ribs showed through torn clothing. His head hung low.
Finest auction in Bara, indeed. This looked like where the dregs of society met their fate, not well-prized men and women being sent to . . .
I realized before the thought could form. It didn’t matter. Slaves were slaves, no matter the iron or silk binding their wrists. One might live longer, a little easier. Both were owned by another. Neither were free.
“Is there as single bid?” the auctioneer called. “This man has experience in the fields. He is strong despite his appearance—”
Silence spread as the crowd stared, unimpressed, a collective scowl crawling from face to face. A few shook their heads. One man took a bite of a steamed bun, chewing mindlessly.
“No bids? Last call.” The auctioneer’s tone grew sharp. “Very well.”
He gestured, a crisp wave of one hand.
The crowd remained bored and disinterested.
A Samurai I hadn’t noticed looming on the edge of the stage stepped forward, his hand on his katana.
I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t. My head knew what came next, but my heart refused to believe it possible.
One fluid motion was all it took.
One fluid motion concluded the sale.
The Samurai’s blade sang—a high, clear note, like the chiming of a bell.
The slave crumpled, though not dramatically, not like in stories.
He just . . . folded.
First his knees, then the rest, like a puppet with cut strings. Blood spread across the stage, dark and thick, pooling in the gaps between boards. The smell slammed into me a moment later. Copper meets useless meat. Useless human.
I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t—
They’d killed him. Right there. And no one—not a single merchant—batted an eye.
“Next!” the auctioneer called cheerfully, as if he hadn’t just watched a man die.
The man with the steamed bun took another bite.
Honey clung to the brittle hairs on his chin.
A woman beside cooled herself with a paper fan, her eyes scanning some object she’d likely bought at one of the nearby stalls.
Another pair of children—small children—raced past, their laughter trailing behind like streamers on the wind.
Servants dragged the old man’s body away, leaving a dark smear, while others rushed forward with buckets and rags to clean the blood.
Each of the cleaners wore silver circles about their necks, marks of slaves owned by the auctioneer.
His ring, a perfect match to their collars, glinted in the day’s brilliant sun.
The cleaning slaves worked efficiently, with practiced movements. The water they poured turned pink, then red, then pink again as they scrubbed.
My legs threatened to give out.
My guard’s grips tightened. “Steady,” one muttered, not unkind. “Don’t make a scene.”
I watched, numb with horror, as more were brought forward.
Some sold quickly—a young woman purchased by a merchant with calculating eyes who examined her teeth like one would a horse, a strong-looking man bought by someone in military garb after a brief, efficient bidding war.
Each exchange was brisk, cold, transactional.
Then it was my turn.
Hands shoved me up the stairs.
I stumbled but caught myself, emerging onto the stage to face the crowd.
A sea of eyes turned toward me.