Chapter 1
Ink That Does Not Dry
Wen Rui knew the map was dangerous because the ink refused to dry.
He had mixed the black himself from lamp soot, gum water and a little iron salt. The batch should have set before the evening call to prayer reached the river. Instead, the new coastline shone wet beneath his brush, although the room was hot and the windows stood open to the Malacca air.
Outside, carts rattled towards the market. Sailors called across the quay in Malay, Tamil, Hokkien and Portuguese. Nutmeg, pepper and damp rope scented the lane.
Inside Wen's shop, the map breathed.
The paper rose and fell by the width of a fingernail.
Wen placed both hands on the table.
"Do not," he whispered.
A line of ink moved east.
It crossed the drawn mangroves, bent around a hill that did not exist and formed a road through the monsoon forest. At the road's end, a square appeared, then a warehouse, then a private harbour hidden from every fort and tax office in the city.
The commission was complete.
Wen's patron had requested a place where cargo could enter Malacca without passing a customs gate. Wen had spent seven nights trying to draw a route that remained only a route. The map had other intentions.
A knock sounded at the shutters.
Three slow taps, two quick.
Wen covered the paper with sailcloth.
His apprentice, Suri, looked up from the back table. She was fifteen, sharp-eyed and better with measurements than most men who visited the shop.
