God of Luck by Ruthann Lum McCunn Read Free Book Online Page B

another dog’s bone, would toss a razor, metal pick, or knife into the growing pile of confiscated items, too. The men he was circling, though, were naked. So where had Red found these items?
    Suddenly meaty fingers were probing my armpits, tearing at my hair, poking into places where only Bo See’s hands belong. Shaken to the core, I would have lost my dollars had it not been for my tightly clenched jaws.
    Then the fingers were pinching my nostrils, twisting them, and my mouth burst open, spewing coins.

    AS THE SAILORS gathered up the contraband and carried it away under Red’s watchful eye, the swineherd snapped his umbrella shut and ordered us to dress.
    “Maintain silence. Bundle up your belongings. Squat when you’re done. Laggards will be placed in irons.”
    Everything was muddled, smeared with pitch, and in the scramble that followed, some hands turned as sticky with greed as tar. Many wrangled fiercely though silently over items, especially coins, but I made no effort to stop those who snatched what was mine. The doctor had dismissed—in addition to the morose graybeard, the skeletal addict beside me, and a fellow with badly ulcerated feet—three who coughed, and had I feigned Ba’s deep gurgling instead of attempting to hide my coins, I might have been making my first steps home. Sick with regret, it was all I could do to pick up a pair of tattered pants and sandals nobody else had claimed, pull them on, squat.
    Looping a tagged cord around each of our necks, the swineherd instructed, “On board, you will be known by the number on your tag. This number matches the one painted on your berth.”
    The characters on mine looked like seven-hundred-and-seventy-nine. But they couldn’t be. The devil-ship, although huge, had neither the length nor the breadth of Strongworm, so how could it house more than twice the people in our village?
    I peered again at the faded ink on my bamboo tag.
    “No!”
    Startled at hearing Small Eyes bellow, I looked up. He was nowhere in sight, and the swineherd was disappearing down the ladder while the devils who’d been posted at the ship’s sides were closing in on us with their muskets raised.
    At the advancing bayonets, captives—obviously as bewildered as myself—fell back on their heels, their bums. A few rose uncertainly. Moments later, prompted by the bayonets’ sharp pricks, we were all on our feet, tumbling down the ladder, staggering over piles of tangled ropes, hurtling through a hatchway and down another ladder into a stinking, thundering darkness.
    Rough hands shoved me forward. My sandaled feet sank into something sodden yet prickly; my nostrils tingled as if I were walking into a cloud of dust. The captives ahead were coughing and sneezing. Soon I was, too.
    Shielding my nose with both hands, my elbows scraped wood. Were we in a walled passage? No, a narrow walkway between double-tiers of men, all shouting.
    In the agitated jumble, I made out:
    “Is the mandarin back?”
    “Did he bring braves?”
    A mandarin? Here? Small Eyes had sounded more anguished than bold. Was that why the swineherd had run, why the devils had abruptly driven us below?
    As hope flickered, a stick rapped wood, punctuating, “Get into a berth. Never mind numbers for now. Any of these upper berths will do.”
    I was still unable to see much more than shadows, but from the scuffing and grunting on either side, I knew men were hoisting themselves up. Reaching out, I fumbled at a board level with my chest.
    A knee, perhaps a heel, swiped my chin, and I jerked back, kicking metal. Liquid splashed my pants, soaked through to my calf, and the sharp odor of piss penetrated the general stink, setting off a string of curses.
    The stick smashed my shoulder blades, knocking me flat against the board in a burst of pain.
    “Up!”
    Gripping the wood as though it were my tormentor’s throat, I lifted myself, slamming my crown into the ceiling. My head ringing, I ducked, canted over the board, and