UNDERNEATH AN OVERCAST sky of gloomiest hue bustles a populous city, a prosperous city, a port city of unparalleled size. Hundreds of ships bob in the waters of its harbor, with hundreds of empty docks awaiting vessels laden with treasures from far and wide. Thousands of able-bodied youths scamper up and down ladders and ramps, some unloading shipments of spices, produce, and rare metals from abroad, while others fill cargo holds with manufactured goods to send out and bring back a profit. This is the capital city of the Esrayan kingdom, hub of trade and commerce on Teipora's eastern seaboard.

Between rows of whitewashed buildings stalks a lone figure in a vibrant coat. Against the backdrop of cloudy skies and alabaster architecture, the rainbow of colors draped over his shoulders causes him to stick out as a lion in one's living room might, but he is no stranger to conspicuity. He is no humble craftsman earning each day's bread by the work of his hands, nor a meek maidservant tasked with braiding the queen's hair. Far from it, this is Prince Zakkai, heir to the throne of Esraya.

(And, most infuriatingly, now exiled from the very same kingdom he should one day rightfully rule.)

Any left turn along his present course will take Zakkai into the busy marketplace where dozens of merchants in gaudy garb compete for the coins of passersby, swearing that their furniture, sculptures, musical instruments, or whatever wares they sell, exceed that of their peers in every way. But Zakkai has no interest in joining the hubbub. If his father's soldiers find him still in the capital city by the next day's dawning, then he will be seized and forcibly shipped off to heaven knows where.

If the sun were not hidden by cloud cover, he could be more sure, but midday must have been an hour ago. Half a day remains for Zakkai to pick his new destination, and so his current path takes him closer to the port with every step. After all, for Esrayans, the sea is a broad avenue to new opportunities, great prosperity, foreign destinations, and so much more. The sea is a bringer of life, and Zakkai has been forced to find a new one.

Zakkai still seethes as the salty ocean breeze wisps through frizzy black hair that should be covered by a crown. His father was pathetic, really, to have cast him out. Intimidated by his son's intellect and threatened by his ambitions, this exile had been a long time in the making, but it still remains a foolish move, cowardly in the extreme. An entire night spent in circular quarreling, ending in a brash banishment at the crack of dawn. His father's regret would be immeasurable.

Wasteful, his father had branded him. How shortsighted can a man be? Why rule the most prosperous nation in Teipora, centerpiece of the entire buffet of eastern trade, and not allow for some indulgences? Why refrain from spending a fortune on entertainment when three times that amount will shortly dock in the harbor? Money earned is money that ought to be spent, and Zakkai's father remains a fool to insist otherwise.

Surely now, the throne belongs to Zakkai's younger brother, too dim-witted to understand the luxuries afforded him by his royal lineage. Too obtuse to see that modesty and fretting over funds spent are the lot of the working class, not a burden to be carried by the shrewd administrators of trade. Shameful that Esraya will continue to be ruled by timid idiots who are unable to understand the privileges afforded by their wealth.

But Esraya's king had been unconvinced by every one of Zakkai's most convincing arguments, and into exile he now goes. Soon, his narrow alleyway widens and splits two ways, becoming a broad road running alongside the coast. At regular intervals, sloped paths branch off of the main avenue and lead down to various docks reaching out to the sea like a hundred little fingers.

Peering at the signage affixed to each boat's hull, Zakkai ponders what port he should set out for. This section of the harbor is dedicated to cargo vessels, passenger ships being located a ways north, but surveying the goods carried in from foreign shores assist his memory in pinpointing an ideal relocation.

The warmer beaches of Tamoia are a relaxing spot to rest and recuperate, he recalls upon spotting a crate of plantains handed from one longshoreman to another, but the interior is peopled by savages who clothe themselves in leaves and paint their faces with blood of dubious origin. He eyes a shipment of orange and yellow peppers and remembers Tamoia's southern neighbor, Kinyan. Slightly more civilized toward the coast, but still crawling with primitives who slaughter one another with sticks and stones. Nowhere near as refined and cultured as Esraya itself.

A team of dock workers amble by with a hunk of timber hoisted over their shoulders, bringing Utanga to mind. The finest furniture in the world is built out of their wood, and their women turn heads wherever they travel, but they worship strange gods. The ascended spirits of their ancestors or some nonsense; Zakkai refuses to live somewhere he must refrain from participating in festivals and celebrations because the people are too uncultured to worship rightly.

Then, spotting a collection of hourglass-shaped bottles filled with white liquid, Zakkai hits upon his destination of choice. Aezantu, producer of the finest palm wine in Teipora, and a true hub of art and culture. Plenty of successful merchants spend their twilight years there, and while no city matches the grandeur of Esraya's own capital, Aezantu's sprawling metropolis comes close. There, he may still brush shoulders with influential elites of the region, and more importantly, encounter intellects that may match his own.

Zakkai hurries his step along the coastline, eventually leaving the cargo ships behind. Now he approaches a stretch of passenger ships in various sizes, some accompanied by crowds waiting to board, and others attended only by ship hands sweeping empty decks. Conveniently, in front of every boarding ramp sits a desk of sorts, where an attendant conveys important information about a ship's heading, accommodations, and such, while also taking payment for those interested in climbing aboard. Finding one vessel with a smaller crowd to contend with outside, Zakkai approaches an attendant with a golden chain about his neck.

"Where is this ship headed?" he asks, not bothering with any pleasantries. "I seek imminent departure from these shores."

The attendant peers up from his desk. "Rali Noa, sir. Departure's in two hours, provided the waters remain still."

No wonder so few wait for this voyage, Zakkai muses. "Are you aware of any ships destined for Aezantu, by any chance?"

"No, sir. The port administrator would be better to ask if you have a specific destination in mind. If you can find him, that is."

"I shall seek him out."

Departing from there, Zakkai continues down the shoreline, and one after another, inquires into the heading of various ships. All are headed for some unsuitable harbor or thronged by too many common folk for the prince's liking. One more vessel remains to examine before he reaches the section for private charters, however, so he turns in to speak with one last attendant, cutting in front of a line of waiting would-be passengers.

The attendant eyes him with annoyance. "How may I help you?"

"Where is this ship headed?"

"Nowhere, now. Due to the growing storm to the north, the port administrator has paused all northbound voyages. Behind you are a line of former patrons I was refunding before you so rudely cut in front—"

"I will not have you speak to me in that manner," Zakkai scolds. "I am Prince Zakkai, son of King Dahudi and heir apparent to the throne of Esraya. I do not take kindly to your snide remarks."

"I apologize, your highness. How else may I help you?"

"How far north is this storm you speak of? I intend on sailing to Aezantu and can suffer no delay."

"The storm will hit our shores as early as tonight, your highness" the attendant answers coolly. "Not very far north at all."

"I see. Carry on."

Zakkai excuses himself and allows the line of dejected would-be passengers to proceed behind him. There must be another way to reach Aezantu. He must simply procure a private charter, pay a daring sailor handsomely to brave the storm or navigate around it, and be gone by dawn. If his father's men catch him still in the city by morning, they surely will not ask his wishes regarding his displacement.

So he approaches a wiry figure tightening the knot securing his boat to the dock. A small vessel, but sturdy and highly maneuverable. If any boat can slip through a storm, it must be this one.

Upon Zakkai's boots crunching on the gravel a few paces from him, the man glances up curiously. "How may I help you, sir?"

"Are you the captain of this vessel?"

"That I am. Are you looking to charter it?"

Zakkai nods, adjusting the leather bag dangling at his side. "What is your rate?"

"Depends on our heading, I'm afraid."

"Aezantu."

"You are unaware of the storm, are you?"

"No, I am well aware of this distemper of the weather."

The man squints. "I have no death wish, sir. I will take you anywhere else, but I am not sailing straight into—"

"How much?"

"It would be three hundred koi if I were willing to risk life and limb to get you there."

"I can give you six hundred."

"I still refuse."

Now Zakkai's brow furrows. "Then consider it for seven hundred."

"Even if you gave me fifteen thousand, I still would not commit suicide for you!"

"Thirty thousand?"

"Are you mad? Even if you had that, we would both—"

"I am Prince Zakkai, son of King Dahudi and heir apparent to the throne of Esraya. I intend to set sail for Aezantu within the next two hours, and I can suffer no delay. If I must exert my royal authority to attain my ends, I shall not hesitate, but I urge you to oblige me willingly."

"I cannot oblige you either way, your highness. I refuse to sail headlong into a storm that has already sunken three cargo ships ordinarily able to weather anything thrown at them."

"Very well then. You have lost my business to another sailor who will oblige me."

The man stares Zakkai dead in the eyes. "With all due honor and respect, your highness, you will not find another to fulfill your request. No amount you offer is worth sinking ship, passengers, and payment all together."

"So you say, but it may not be so."

With that, Zakkai turns his back to the man and continues down the shoreline. One after another, he haggles with ship captains who turn down even his most ridiculous offers. Even after presenting one hundred thousand koi to a particularly grizzled sailor, the man merely laughs in his face and turns him away. Distressed by the hopelessness of his situation, Zakkai finally breaks down to this man and lays out the entire predicament he has become ensnared in.

"I pity you, your highness," he says, "but I can do nothing for you unless you consider some southern port. If you cannot live with that, you have no other option but to head west."

No southern port is worth spending half of the money he carries on his person, Zakkai reasons, so he really is left with only that western option. Turning from the grizzled captain with a huff, he faces the capital city, sets his jaw, and marches away from the coast. The farther inland he goes, the less culture he expects to find, but perhaps he can lay low in some village just outside Esraya, wait for tensions to die down, and then sneak back to the port for an Aezantu getaway after all.

But for now, head hanging, westward he walks.