"Look at this scrawny bastard," someone says.

  "He's not going to last three days," mutters another voice.

  "Let's ghost him and be done," a third rumbles.

  "Can we talk about this?" I manage.

  There's a big man with my collar in his fist, an older woman holding the knife, and a wiry youth with a wispy beard. All three wear worn-out, much-patched shirts and have a generally unwashed look about them. The knife is a sliver of sharpened iron with a makeshift cloth grip, but no less threatening for that.

  "What's to talk about?" the big man says. He has a bit of Quarter's naval accent. "You ain't gonna to make weight, so you're not worth keeping around."

  "I'm stronger than I look," I volunteer.

  "They all say that," the woman says, her voice high and nasal.

  "And I have useful skills."

  "They all say that too," the youth says, eager to chime in. "Stick 'im, Peg!"

  "Not 'ere," the big man says. "Gotta take 'im --"

  "Put the poor fucker down," says a new voice, deep and loud with authority. Large hands land on Peg's and the boy's shoulders, pushing them apart. My savior is a big woman, heavily muscled, with deep-set eyes and a crooked nose. Her hair is twisted tight into long, pale braids.

  "Look at 'im, Margie!" the youth whines. "You think he can make weight?"

  "I think we're already down two," Margie says. "If you ghost him the first day even that idiot Gallor will notice. Put him , Drey."

  Very slowly, the big man's fingers loosen from my collar. He draws himself up and stares at Margie.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  "He'd better be up to it," he says coldly. "I ain't working extra shifts on short rations on his account."

  Margie rolls her eyes and makes a shooing gesture. The three of them move off, grumbling.

  "Thank you," I say, breathing gratefully. "Margie?"

  "Yeah. You?"

  "Kal."

  "You come on the supply ship?"

  I give a cautious nod.

  "Any other prisoners aboard? We've been shorthanded for months."

  "The ship was ambushed by raiders," I tell her. "Only one of the guards and I made it."

  "Fuuuuuuuuck." Margie lets out a low moan. "And the commandant won't cut the quotas. You'd better be a fucking hard worker, or you'll get ghosted for sure."

  "What exactly does that involve?"

  Margie shrugs. "Slit your throat in a dark tunnel and tell the guards you got sick. Collect your rations until somebody figures it out."

  I figured. "Thanks for the warning."

  "Next shift's in an hour. I'll show you what's what. Till then, pick an empty bunk and rest up."

  This seems like fine advice. Now that I can see a little better, I note we're in a large chamber with a few dozen cots, mostly set up in little groups against the walls. There's a firepit in the center, banked now to faintly glowing coals. A few buglights, little globes that glow a sickly pale green, provide a hint of illumination. Prisoners are talking, sleeping, or squatting on the floor playing dice games. A few of the cots are shoved to one side, unattended, so I pick one of those and lie down.

  Fucking Agni. I'm not much for vengeance, ordinarily, but I entertain a brief fantasy of somehow slipping a knife between her ribs and seeing the shocked look on her face. She must have known what she was doing, all the way back in Theo's camp. She let me make my little plan, delivering her right back where she wanted to be. Thinking about her initial reluctance, the hesitation she'd affected, makes my blood boil.

  There's a certain amount of injury to my professional pride as well. I'd been conned, just as easily as a mark in one of my own games. And by an . It's not the first time, either. Trusting Ba'alabeth is what got me into this mess in the first place. Trusting people too easily is an odd sort of weakness for a con artist, I admit, but a surprisingly common one in my experience; I think it comes from the over-confidence that's endemic to the breed. Still.

  And, like a pit at the center of my mind, the thing I don't want to think about. Not only am I stuck down here, but Mercy's going to . She'll melt into a puddle and Gray will find someone else to start his fucking revolution and I'll just stay down here cracking rocks until I die, too. Somehow, though, it's Mercy's red eyes going dim and cold that sticks with me. She me, and I let her down.

  Story of my life, goes a stray thought, before I squash it.